


Unravel

by falling_forever



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, He/Him and They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jon goes through multiple identity crises and learns some things, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Memory Loss, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, No beta we kayak like Tim, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James Lives, The Mechanisms Were Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist's College | University Band, Time Travel, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falling_forever/pseuds/falling_forever
Summary: Jon has a freaky monster doppelganger locked in document storage and is trying very hard not to have a breakdown about it.He's not succeeding very well.(Or; trust, and identity, and becoming.)
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 340
Kudos: 717





	1. Face to Face

The recorder had been Tim's idea. Unlike many of Tim's ideas, Jon had been surprised to find it actually worked. He had spent days trying to record the four "problem statements" that had cropped up, cycling between laptops and phones, changing the recording software, borrowing proper recording equipment, but nothing had worked. Every recording turned a garbled mess, or crashed when he tried to open it, or corrupted every file in its folder, or straight up disappeared when he tried to save it. One file had even taken to jumping around on his computer, changing its name and location every time he closed it. That one played nothing but a distorted melody which had most certainly not been present while he recorded.

The tape recorder, for some reason, had none of these problems, and returned a solid recording of his voice reading the shortest of the problem statements, albeit with a tiny bit of feedback. Still. It is something, and if some of the statements have to be kept on tape, well, at least it means there is an audio copy.

Jon is starting with the second problem statement, one about several missing persons that Sasha had finished researching several days back, when there is a crash from somewhere else in the archives. With an exasperated sigh and some vague threats against Martin (because only Martin would bring a creature as messy and clumsy as a _dog_ into a two hundred year old archive, seriously, what had he been thinking), he leaves his office and goes to investigate.

As it turns out, the shaky shelf from last week had finally collapsed, the singular box of documents haphazardly balanced on of it having fallen to the ground. Shuffling the papers back into the box takes but a moment, and he muses that it's hardly in a worse state of organization than it was before. How on earth had Gertrude sorted _any_ of this?

When he gets back to his office, the tape is still running. He frowns, sighs, then stops and rewinds it. Better not to waste the tape, he hadn't seen many around and the things aren't exactly commonplace any more. He picks up the first page of the statement again, then, on second thought, introduces himself and does a little summary. It'll be good to have on file.

He ends up whining about the state of the archives for longer than intended, but it's hardly his fault Gertrude was apparently grossly incompetent at her job.

There is... a presence to this statement, once he finally does begin. It's... wrinkled, somehow, his mind supplies. He can't quite place it. The words flow smoothly off his tongue, and he catches the tone of his voice shift before it completely sweeps him away.

It feels rather like a performance.

It feels like he has an audience.

Before he knows it the statement is over. The feeling of being watched settles slightly as he goes over the research notes, and he finds himself playing his skeptic angle even harder than normal; it feels like defeat, like he can't admit he believes the story (he does, deep down, it's too unsettling and imperfect to be false) or this _presence_ will have somehow won. He can't let it know he's afraid.

After he clicks off the recorder, the sensation gradually fades, and he becomes extremely aware of just how empty the office is. He pushes the memory of that presence to the back of his mind, and tries very hard to ignore it.

He takes a deep breath, and realises suddenly that he's very, very tired.

Maybe he won't stay that late after all.

He leaves the other problem statements for another day; the other two statements he has do, thankfully, record digitally, and he spends his last hour in document storage, sorting through a number of boxes that are supposed to contain statements from the nineties. Technically two of them are from the eighteen nineties. They get a particularly dour glare as he sets them aside.

A glance at his phone reveals that it has, in fact, been three hours, and not one, and he curses lightly at the lost time. He's almost finished this box though, so he reluctantly admits he can spare another few minutes.

For the second time that day, he is interrupted by the sound of something heavy meeting the floor deeper in the archives. And this late after hours, he _knows_ he should be alone in the archive.

He holds his breath, and gently setting down the file in hand, he walks over to the end of the shelf and peers down over the rows of dimly lit wood and metal. For a long moment, there is nothing, and the silence hangs thick in the musty air.

Then a shadow crosses the back wall. It is tall, and thin, and gone back between the stacks before he can get a better look.

"Hello?"

His voice echoes in the deadly quiet of the archives. The lights above whine softly. Something creaks. If he strains, he can just hear the soft tread of boots over his own pounding heart. If he isn't imagining them.

He ducks back behind the shelf, breathing slow and deliberate. An attempt at quiet. There's someone, or something, here with him. He desperately wishes he had a weapon. Or anything more substantial than a pile of unsorted statement folders.

He definitely regrets letting it know he is here.

Jon looks out around the corner again, and comes face to face with it.

He is instantly hit with an overwhelming sense of _wrongness,_ a bitter nausea that claws its way into his throat and has him clutching the shelf to keep himself standing upright. He can make out worn clothing, a dark shirt under a faded coat, long and rough. A dark, deeply scarred hand. Burn marks?

He looks up. For a moment, it looks almost like him. It has his face, somehow, though it is rough and worn, silvering hair and pockmark scars and deep, tired lines etched into every crevice.

Then it _looks_ at him. It stands at his full, impressive height, and it looks down on him with eyes that are too dark and too deep and too knowing to be anything resembling human. As though there is no iris at all, just impossibly large pupils that seem to devour all light and open to something so _other_ he can hardly stand to look, or to know. He can't look away. He can't not know.

Somehow, those impossible eyes are open to him, in a way he has never been able to read anyone before. And through the terror that grips his throat, he can almost say they look... surprised.

"W-What are you?"

It pauses, shifts, those eyes bearing down on him so hard he can hardly breathe.

"The Archivist," it answers, finally.

It has his voice too.

The eyes shift, glancing over to something on the shelves, and that's all he needs. Jon bolts, free from the impossible weight of that horrible, _knowing_ stare, and flees as fast as his legs can take him. He skirts around a shelf, _flies_ across the room and comes to a skiddering stop at the heavy door to document storage, still ajar slightly. He presses against it, shifting it just enough to slip through and just as quickly shoves it closed again, fingers fumbling as he locks and seals the room, daring to breathe only when whatever that thing was has been properly sealed in.

He stumbles a few steps into the hallway, and collapses against a wall.

_What the fuck._

There's protocols for this sort of thing, he vaguely remembers someone telling him. At least, there is for artifact storage. For when someone comes across a strange figure or unknown person that shouldn't be there. He wonders how often they're used. The fact that there are protocols at all is concerning.

There is a supernatural entity that looks like his weird doppelganger locked in the archives, and Jon is trying very hard not to have a panic attack about it.

He notices his shallow, rapid breathing and realises he's not doing a very good job of that.

Jon takes another shuddering breath, and grips his fingers in his hair (it's starting to come loose, he should invest in stronger hair ties). His mind is filled with blackness and empty, the sharpness of impossible eyes cutting into him like blades, leaving him raw and bloody and frail as he struggles to breathe under the weight.

It had his face. How did something like that have his face?

Against his will, his mind flashes back to the last time he had such an encounter; that particular monster had been nothing human at all, just a set of spindly, horrible legs that ate a child before him. Had there been something like a person hiding in the darkness of that doorway? Something almost human but with extra black eyes and additional spindly arms that wove its silky sweet webs? Did it look like its own person, or would it too have stolen a face that did not belong?

And now, now he can't stop thinking about those legs, those _eyes,_ and oh, those are tears spotting his trousers, he's crying, ragged gasping breaths echoing in the dank hallway while his fingers pull his hair from its tie and his whole body quivers.

He focuses on the breathing first, on the sensations against his fingers, on the dust of the archives he can smell throughout the whole basement, and gradually claws his way back into himself.

There is a monster locked in the archives, and he has no idea what to do about it.

It is then that he notices the prickling feeling of being watched. He turns to look down the hall, but no, there isn't anyone there, nor should there be. It is late, and the archives are empty.

Well. Aside from his unexpected guest. Who is locked in document storage and _should not_ be able to watch him from there.

He stands, slowly, wincing as his joints crack. Tim loves to tease him about his "old man bones." Then again, Tim also thinks he's nearly 40 (which is not old, but still). The cane doesn't help his case. He doesn't bring it in every day, only needs it when his leg is acting up particularly bad, maybe once or twice a month. He wishes he had it now, if only for the moral support.

He looks around the archives, just to be sure, but there really is no one there. The closest thing to something that could be watching him is a small doodle of an eye, a black mark against cold drywall.

Feeling childishly paranoid, and somewhat ridiculous for even thinking it, he pulls a sticky note off a nearby desk and carefully sticks it over the eye drawing. It does make him feel a little better, even if it's just... symbolic, or whatever. Cover the eyes, feel less watched and all that.

It's stupid. This is all stupid. There is a monster with freaky eyes in document storage and he's putting sticky notes over a doodle Tim probably put there once as a joke.

Jon grabs his things from the office and leaves. He is distinctly not running. He is not dealing with this right now.

The feeling of being watched doesn't leave when he exits the institute.

Or when he boards the tube.

Or when he starts walking down his street.

He slams the door to his flat closed, and does his best to ignore it. He can't shake the image of those _impossible eyes,_ drawing him in, horrifying and beautiful and far, far too much, piercing right through his skin and his flesh and his very _being,_ eyes that seemed to see right into the very core of him.

He tells himself that if watching him is the only sinister thing it can do, it's going to have to try a lot harder than that.

(It's not even a comforting lie.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise any sort of consistent updates but I'm working very hard to finish this. Currently expecting around 6-7 chapters? I'll put it down once I finalize.
> 
> Coming up next: a lot more monster Jon.


	2. Eye to Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a knife, some tea, and an existential crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my thought process going into this fic: hey so what if I wrote a time travel fic but purely from past Jon's perspective and also future Jon is a cryptic spooky bastard would that be wild or what
> 
> and now I have something resembling a plot, so that's cool
> 
> thank you all for the lovely comments by the way they absolutely make my day

When Jon arrives at the institute the next morning, well before opening hours, he has a knife. He has no idea if it will help at all, but he is terrified of that thing that looks like him but wrong, and it at least means he won't be entirely defenceless.

Sometime between bouts of fitful rest the night before, that awful, heavy _knowledge_ of being watched had faded. Still, he'd been unable to sleep well, and had eventually given up and gotten out of bed a solid hour before his alarm. After pacing restlessly around his small flat while waiting for the shops to open, he'd gone out and bought the largest camping knife he could get on short notice, and hidden it in his bag. It makes him feel... a little better.

He can see the door to document storage as he heads to his office, and a chill creeps down his spine. Driven by his own morbid curiosity, he finds himself wandering to the door, and peering in through the narrow, tinted windows. It's dark. His hand drifts to the handle, and—

It's locked. Of course it's locked.

He pulls out the knife, and hesitates. His go-to response is denial; it's served him well for years, the ability to box away all manner of suspicious activity as something mundane, something he can handle. The supernatural is real, yes, but it's so much rarer than people claim. Most "encounters" have a very rational explanation.

He recalls the figure's gaze, and shudders.

There's no way he can rationalize that.

He is not foolish enough to trust something that wears his face like a mask (is not far gone enough to listen to the tiny nagging voice that says it _is_ him, because he knows that can't be right, there's no way that can be right, _he_ is him and that _thing_ is _not_ ), but he also can't _ignore_ it, not now that he knows something is there.

He takes a deep breath, grip tightening. He doesn't want to go in. But he has to _know._

And it's not like he can keep out forever, it is literally his job.

He opens the door and flicks on the lights. The archives fill with the electric hum of too-old bulbs, flickering slightly in the stuffy, dry air. But aside from the rows of shelves and unruly stacks of misfiled statements, there is nothing here. It's empty.

Something feels off about the place, and it takes him a moment to put his finger on it. The floor has been swept, thoroughly, clear of even the last traces of dust that had lurked in the corners and between the boxes stacked everywhere.

Which definitely means something was in here.

So where has it gone?

"Makes a strange sort of sense, I suppose," He keeps his voice low as he thinks out loud. "Mysteriously appears in the archives, mysteriously vanishes."

Tim loves to go on about the institute being haunted. Jon really doesn't want to entertain the idea of it being an... apparition, but that is quickly becoming a very tempting theory.

But, no, the place has been cleaned and there are files that have been moved, so clearly it is something corporeal. Which means it got in somehow, and he just has to find it.

He spends nearly forty minutes combing the place, looking for any sort of back door or entrance or _something,_ but the room is sealed and it's a basement and the closest thing to an entrance is the air ducts, whose openings are far too small and whose size is sufficiently lacking to support something human sized.

Eventually he admits it's a lost cause. His heart is still pounding, and does not slow until the door is firmly closed behind him once again.

The office is warmer than document storage by a few degrees, but he still shivers as he deposits his bag by the immaculate desk (in sharp contrast to the rest of the office, which, despite his best efforts, he has not been able to tame completely).

"Do I make a statement?" he muses, pacing the office. "Won't be able to show it to anyone, not if I want to keep the whole skeptic thing up."

It's comforting, voicing his thoughts out loud. And he isn't feeling watched, not right now, so it feels... safe enough.

"Tell Elias maybe? Oh yes, brilliant idea," he mutters, sitting down in his desk chair, gesturing with a hand. "Write him an email, _Hello Elias, I saw a strange figure in the archives but don't worry, it's vanished without a trace, even did some light cleaning, maybe we should try installing cameras._ That'll go over well."

Jon lets out a wry laugh.

"Maybe I am losing it."

He glances at his phone; it's still early, the others won't be in for some time, and he decides a cup of tea is exactly what he needs before settling into his work.

When he stands up, he very nearly falls over in his desperate scramble backwards. There is a silhouette before him, a distinct lack of a person, a void outline with edges that seem to warp the world inwards around it. He blinks and is suddenly looking back at his eerie duplicate once again, complete with too many scars and long messed hair and impossible eyes that seem to draw the light in.

The thing from last night is in his office. The door is shut behind it. And they are alone.

Jon's heart is caught in his throat, pounding its furious and frantic rhythm. A deep chill creeps over his skin as the fear grips him tight, and he is pinned in place as the piercing gaze of his visitor presses against his very being.

It lasts only a moment, and then the eyes have moved on and he can breathe, though the blood is still pounding in his ears. The figure looks around the office, eyes coming to a pause on every odd shelf, the books slid neatly in every available spot, the boxes of unfiled statements, the half hidden chalkboard with its smudged white scrawls, and as it looks, its face carries a sort of sadness, or relief. He cannot quite tell.

While it is... occupied, Jon takes the chance to stand properly, and picks up the cane from where it is leaned against the desk. It's a comfort, more than anything, but it is solid and reliable in his hand.

The knife is also on the desk, just within reach.

"You... are aware that you can't lock someone in document storage, right?" His visitor asks, still not quite facing him. "It's a safety thing. There's a release on the inside."

The smile is lighter now. Friendly. It looks so strange on his face.

He does, in fact, know that, had even seen it on the way out. It had just... not registered at the time.

"Right. Yes. Good to know, I suppose."

It glances over, and raises an eyebrow, but does not comment as it returns to surveying the room. Jon clenches his jaw and fights the urge to squirm under the weight of its gaze (which is not, technically, on him, though that hardly seems to make a difference).

He picks up the knife, gripping it tightly in his free hand.

"It's ah... I don't think it'll do anything, but feel free."

He starts, but the thing is still not looking at him. He suppresses a shudder. He doesn't trust it. He can't. It's not _human,_ and he has no idea what it wants from him, or what it could do.

"Right," it sighs.

It looks up, but a few feet off to the side. Distinctly not at him. (He looks anywhere but those eyes. He can still see them.)

"What do you want?" He forces out, voice far breathier than he would like.

It pulls something from its coat, and Jon's first assumption is that it's a statement folder, thin and pale in that weathered hand. It tosses it onto his desk with a light flourish, keeping its distance, and he can see that it is instead a pamphlet, maybe a dozen pages stapled together. His gaze slides off the washed-out surface, unable to focus on the words, and he unthinkingly brushes his fingertips against the cover before pulling the hand back as it is instantly snapped with a static shock.

He can taste the static on his tongue.

His neck prickles as he realises what it is.

"That's a Leitner, isn't it."

"Yes. I need you to read it. Just a couple of words, that will be enough to protect you."

"You want me to read a Leitner."

"Yes."

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

It pauses.

"Well..."

Jon stutters out indignantly, though it mostly comes out as incoherent syllables.

"Joking, joking," it placates him. "Look, Jon, you're in danger. You have been from the moment you accepted the head archivist position. I have information that will help, but first I need to make sure you're protected from one very specific danger."

He pushes aside the knowledge that it knows his name (of course it knows his name, it's wearing _his face_ ) and makes a concerted effort to keep his expression neutral.

"Why would you want to help me?"

"I have a... _personal interest_ in keeping you relatively out of harm's way."

He blinks.

"I... Was that a joke?"

His doppelganger smiles. "I suppose."

That is... hm.

The idea that there are supernatural beings that want to _help_ instead of harm is almost more frightening than the idea of the supernatural taking a heavy presence in his life. Actually, it is far more frightening. It's a reversal of the roles he doesn't know how to cope with. The supernatural is vague, and strange, and unknowing, but it is certainly not _good._ He can't trust it.

And yet here it is, standing in his office, making jokes and smiling with a heavy sadness.

He is, more than anything, deeply conflicted, and achingly curious.

What had it called itself... the Archivist?

His eyes drift once again to the Leitner on the desk. It really is quite a lot of effort just to get him to read a murderous book. And he really, really wants to know. So he takes a calming breath and a leap of faith. He flicks open the pamphlet, lets his eyes drift over the page. A few words jump out and he hardly has time to process then before there is movement and the book is snatched away.

A spike of nausea rises in his throat, and the Archivist makes a small sound of surprise. It is much closer now, and Jon's skin crawls as he grips his cane.

"Hm. Proximity...?" The Archivist's voice is thoughtful, and quiets as it mutters something about spirals. It does take several steps back, and the sick feeling fades.

"What are you?" Jon breathes, still slightly lightheaded. Where had this come from? Was its presence making him sick? Is that what it meant by proximity?

"Jonathan Sims, the Archivist," it responds, in the exact tone Jon uses when recording statements.

"That's not funny."

"I know... sorry. That is my name though, as much as it is yours."

He glares at it. It sighs.

"I am... less of Jonathan Sims than you are," it (he?) explains. "I'm something else as well. You are Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. I am the Archivist. Or the Archive. Both are adequate."

"Why... why me?"

He doesn't elaborate, but it doesn't appear to be necessary.

"Just, ah, your own rotten luck. And, well... I'd rather be Jon, than... something else. The alternative is... let's just say it's something I would rather avoid."

Jon isn't sure what to say to that, so instead he changes the subject.

"You said you wanted to help. How?"

"First, information," the Archivist begins. "You may want to sit down. This is going to be a lot."

* * *

_"Your world is being manipulated by unknowable eldritch fear entities"_ is not a revelation Jon has ever thought he would have to deal with on a Wednesday morning. But here he is.

He is not dealing with it _well._ He feels very small, and his whole body is shaking, and his mind is running in circles of ancient powers and deadly avatars and invisible webs and unbreakable bonds, of a cruel world full of horrors waiting to prey on the unlucky.

And apparently he can't quit, not if he wants to keep his sight. And isn't that just lovely.

"Do you want tea?"

The Archivist speaks up after a long moment, and Jon has some difficulty wrapping his head around the incredibly mundane question.

"What?"

"I'm... I'll go make tea."

And the Archivist leaves him to his thoughts.

He wants to run after it. To shake it by shoulders that might not be real and demand why it felt the need to bring him into this world, to shatter his illusions about a sensible reality, to fill his mind with the awful knowledge of the horrors that lurk just out of sight.

Instead he paces, then screams into his hands, then has a short cry that dissolves into borderline hysterical laughter, paces some more, and sits back down. His hands are still shaking, and there is a hollowness in his stomach, and the rush of blood in his ears is far too loud.

It's better that he knows, he tells himself. It's better to know than to go in blind, and be dragged along by powers he doesn't understand.

He doesn't have to like it.

_"The Eye. Ceaseless Watcher. Beholding. It Knows You. The Institute is one of its many temples. You and I are both bound to it. It is the source of my power."_

_"Will I... become like you?"_

_"No." The Archivist's voice is harsh, its eyes seeming to darken even further. "No you will not."_

He files that particular exchange away for later. Apparently he belongs to this Eye now, and despite the Archivist's assurance he won't become _that,_ its brief descriptions of other avatars leave little doubt that _some_ sort of change is inevitable.

At least he knows, right?

The door creaks quietly, and the Archivist enters, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. It places one at the edge of his desk, and retreats, leaning back against the door frame and drinking from the other.

The sight of this terrifying avatar of knowledge sipping tea from a chipped yellow mug makes him feel very, very strange. He takes a sip from his own mug. It's sweeter than he usually takes it. It's good.

"Are you... okay?"

The Archivist's voice is soft. Jon tightens his grip on the mug, and laughs sharply.

"Can't you just _know?_ " He snaps back, still bitter, still not forgiving it for bringing him into this (it didnt, he was already involved, but it's so much easier to direct these emotions at it than at some distant eldritch force).

"Well... yes, but I don't like to if I can help it. And _A Disappearance_ makes it a little more difficult for me."

"How considerate."

It looks into its mug, rubbing circles onto the pale ceramic with a scarred finger, and does not respond, save for a quiet sigh.

Several tense minutes pass in silence, both sipping at their tea and avoiding conversation.

It is the Archivist who speaks first.

"Sasha will be here soon," it comments.

Jon checks the time. It's not even nine yet, and he's already exhausted.

"I think the archives can manage themselves for one day," it continues, "if you need time off to... process."

"No, I... I need to be here. Working, it... helps. Gives me something to do."

"Right. Well, hold off on the statements for today."

"Hm. Hang on, wait. Why does the tape recorder work? For the real ones?"

"The supernatural has... a funny way of interacting with technology. Digital tends to get a bit weird around it. Analog—polaroids and tape—usually work at capturing the world as is."

"Usually?"

"Listen closely to the tapes you've recorded. There's probably some feedback, extra interference you can't quite detect by ear. Always a good way to tell if something is... more than it seems."

"I... alright."

The Archivist nods, and waves.

"I'll, ah, be seeing you then."

The door clicks behind it, and it is gone.

Jon puts his head in his hands, and wonders what on Earth he did to deserve this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies to those of you that wanted to read the Archivist's whole rambling exposition but I did not want to write that, and this chapter is long enough already. they told him about the fears and avatars and a little about rituals, mentioned both their and Elias' powers, did not bring up the Magnus thing, and avoided telling Jon they're from the future.
> 
> also for future reference (heh), past Jon uses he/him pronouns and future Jon uses they/them. they will bring this up next chapter.
> 
> (also I promise the archival crew will make appearances at some point, but the focus of this fic is on the relationship between the Jon's, so I didn't feel right tagging them)


	3. The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reflects. The Archivist dodges some questions. There's a skirt and some bonding time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm gonna make this a shorter chapter."  
> 3k words later: ah.
> 
> anyways, enjoy. wanted to get this posted before the new episode.

"They."

Jon yelps as the Archivist's voice startles him out of his own headspace, and the statement in his hands slips, sending scattered papers flying in every direction. The Archivist offers a sheepish smile from its position in the doorway.

"Sorry."

"It's. Fine. Just startled me."

The Archivist has made a point of stopping by the office a few times in the weeks since it first appeared, occasionally to look over statements (immediately dismissing them) or answer some of Jon's questions about the fears, but more often than not it seems that it just wants to... socialise. He is not one for idle chatter, but the Archivist doesn't press for conversation, often simply sitting on the extra chair and flipping through a book while Jon continues to work. They do talk, occasionally, but Jon has always found quiet companionable enough and the Archivist seems to agree. Also it's... nice, to drop the skeptic act, now and again. There's no point in pretending to the monster that can basically read his mind that he doesn't believe in the genuine statements.

Plus, since its first visit, the prickling feeling of being watched hasn't returned, save for once shortly before the Archivist once again arrived in his office. It does still have the unfortunate habit of unexpectedly appearing from thin air. It turns out Jon _had_ likely been imagining the footsteps from its first appearance in the archives, because during its visits since then, he has not heard it make a single sound as it walks across the creaking wood of the office floor, as though it has no weight at all. He tries not to think about that too much.

He kneels down to collect the scattered statement and research notes... or, what passes as research for a statement that is so full of continuity errors it can hardly even be called a story.

"You were saying..."

"I use they/them pronouns. Not he, or... it. Forgot to mention it before."

"You forgot."

It—they, shrug.

"I don't talk to a lot of people."

"Hm. Alright, I'll... I'll try to remember. Thank you for letting me know."

"Of course."

The Archivist walks soundlessly across the office, running a finger along the spines of the books lined up on one of the many shelves. Jon stands, papers collected, and makes his way back behind the desk. He catches a glimpse of them from the corner of his eye as they both move, and very adamently _does not_ see that empty silhouette in place of a person.

The Archivist, for their part, has taken to closing their eyes whenever they are in the room together. He assumes it is to spare him the sight of their gaze (which still hurts, still makes him feel he can't breathe, makes him feel he might bend and melt and slip away), but the knowledge that they can apparently see perfectly fine while their eyes are closed really doesn't make him feel better.

"You should get a rug in here," they comment, and Jon notices their hands flick outwards in half-hearted BSL, something he himself does occasionally, by habit. Hm. "Liven up the room a bit."

"It's a workplace, that's hardly appropriate."

"It's the archive, no one's going to care. Get something with neutral colours, like Jamie's old moth one, that'll look nice with—"

"Don't do that," he snaps.

The Archivist pauses, their previously animated hands still hovering in the air.

"Don't do... what?"

"Pick through my memories. Don't do that."

"I... It's..."

The Archivist lets out a quiet, heavy sigh. Jon can barely catch their next words, faint as they fall in the near silence of the office.

"They're my memories too."

The admission instills in Jon a strange sort of disquiet; another taste of the near-constant undercurrent of fear he has come to associate with the Archivist's presence. He's still been thinking of it... _them,_ as something other, something that became like him. Their admission of being _something else_ as well as Jon, "less of him than he is", as though that makes any sense, hadn't done anything to help that image. And, well, it could still be true. But, them having all his memories as well... that hits differently, for some reason. There is, of course, the fear of being seen and known, someone else having access to all the worst parts of himself he'd rather leave buried. But, warring with that, there is the idea... the _hope,_ he is reluctant to call it... that maybe here is someone who understands him, better than anyone else ever could.

The idea that Jon can't connect properly with an actual human being that isn't effectively a copy of himself is, really, about par for the course. He is the opposite of a people person, never quite gotten the hang of it, and he's only gotten more closed off in the last several years. People are... difficult to relate to, and the sentiment usually seems mutual.

There's movement from the Archivist, and Jon realises he's been staring off into the middle distance for some time. He blinks, clears his throat. Picks at the hem of his sweater vest. Runs fingers along the smooth wood of the desk.

"Apologies, I was... thinking."

"Yes, rather loudly," they comment wryly. Then they freeze up, bringing up a hand to rub at their neck awkwardly. "I— I wasn't _listening._ There's just... feedback."

"Yes. You, ah... hm. I suppose I simply hadn't... considered the option. How, exactly does that work? Are you... This is going to sound stupid no matter how I phrase it, are you... some sort of... copy? Of me? With the additional powers?"

"I, ah... that is one way of putting it, yes. Yes."

"So, what does—"

"I'd really... rather not talk about it."

"Oh. A-alright then."

The rest of their visit is spent in quiet, though Jon finds himself unable to focus on work, mind busy with thoughts of shared memories and faces and the implications of the Archivist title and his own position, because there's something he's missing there and he knows it. Then the Archivist is gone, and Martin comes in brandishing some sorry excuse for research notes and all thoughts of those particular mysteries are pushed aside.

* * *

On his birthday, Jon comes into his office to find two packages wrapped neatly in brown paper sitting on his desk. One is a small bottle of a chocolate liqueur that brings back happy memories from uni, and the other is a thick novel with a card stuck in the cover that reads _Take a break, you've earned it_ in his own handwriting.

The eeriness of seeing his own penmanship aside, he supposes there are benefits to having a creepy doppelganger that knows his preferences, and places both the gifts into a drawer to enjoy later.

He wonders if he should get the Archivist something as well. He has never been good at giving gifts; they definitely have something of an advantage in that regard.

He settles for saving them a piece of Tim's cake (sans candles, and he really does need to have a word with him about that), because despite himself, the cake is actually very good, a fluffy vanilla with the barest hint of lemon, drizzled with raspberry icing. The Archivist looks amazed, and so... _soft,_ at this gesture. They take the flimsy paper plate with a gentle smile, and thank him with a fierce genuineness that seems far out of proportion for such a small gesture.

Then the nausea hits again and the Archivist disappears without another word.

* * *

Jon had, eventually, decided that a rug would be an acceptable addition to the office space, and smiles in slight satisfaction as he looks over the weave of rich browns and creams and golds, deep red and green threads accenting the abstract patterns, the whole thing fitting in very nicely in the dusky room. He'd found it in a charity shop the other week, tucked away in a corner with a few cobwebs, and the warm colours had spoken perfectly to his tastes.

It is... also something of an apology. He feels bad about snapping at the Archivist, but hadn't known how to bring it up since, so taking their suggestion to... liven up the office had seemed a good place to start.

When the Archivist does show again, they stop to smile at the new addition, before depositing a handful of statements on Jon's desk.

"Borrowed these. Sorry for the confusion."

Jon sifts through them, glancing at the case numbers.

"Are these— This is the statement Sasha was looking for earlier, I thought Martin might have misplaced it... Why do _you_ have them?"

"Ah... so you know how I mentioned statements feed the Beholding?"

"Yes..."

"I sort of... feed off them too?"

"You... eat. Statements?"

"Technically I feed off the fear, but... yes?"

"R-right. Okay. I'll be honest, that is... somehow not the strangest thing you've told me."

"I... yes, I, suppose that's true. It's hard to beat skin-stealing mannequins."

"Quite."

They move back towards the other chair (he's come to think of it as theirs now, really), and Jon notices with some surprise that they're wearing a skirt. It's a rich green, very dark, very simple, the fabric swirling and draping around their legs, ending just below the knee.

He is all leg, he knows this, tall and thin and awkward with his body (and this technically isn't even him, Christ, this whole doppelganger thing is weird), and the skirt doesn't hide this, but manages to add a softness, and the height doesn't look so bad with the soft waves of fabric covering down to their knees and paired with the heavy-looking boots the Archivist is always wearing.

They catch his eye (or, at least, turn in his direction, but he _knows_ they're looking at him in that weird metaphysical way), and run their fingers down the fabric... self-consciously?

Hang on, are they _blushing?_

"Do you... does it look alright?"

"Um." Are they asking for compliments? Advice? He doesn't know how this is supposed to work. And it's on his body? Sort of. But not. Does he look at this objectively? Can he? This is _weird._ "F-fine, I suppose."

Had he ever... yes, he does remember, this isn't the first time he's seen himself in a skirt. The last time... the _only_ time he'd worn one had been years back, in college, Georgie dragging him along to some celebration and gently nudging him out of his comfort zone by providing a skirt she'd obviously borrowed from someone, it was far too long to be hers. It had been soft and black, falling nearly to his ankles, and with a little persuasion he'd accented it with matching dark eyeliner and lipstick.

It was... fun. He'd enjoyed that evening. He'd really been into the whole "mysterious and unknowable" thing at the time, mostly as a way to avoid being awkward around people, and the moments of confused glances as people took in his skirt, his shoulders, his makeup, before settling on the stubble that never quite seemed to leave his face, well, those moments had felt... nice. He'd thought about giving it another shot, perhaps with the band, but had never quite gathered the courage to ask to borrow another skirt, or to go out and get his own. It had eventually faded from mind, lost among the memories of the person he'd once been, until, well, now.

Seeing the Archivist wear one now, stirring up those memories... how much he's changed, since then. How much he's buried.

"It's..." The Archivist trails off, looking down at the deep green fabric in their fingers. "I'm still... I just figured out the whole gender thing rather recently, and... certain, _circumstances,_ meant I never really got around to exploring the, ah, presentation side of things. Thought I'd... give it a spin."

They're... nervous? Are they looking for reassurance?

"Right. Well, it, um. Looks. Good."

Good job. Very helpful. Jon turns back to his computer and continues filling out his data form, neck burning with embarrassment. Christ he's bad at this whole communication thing.

"Thank you," comes the gentle response.

He glances up, and... oh, they're smiling. Hm. They're always so incredibly open with their emotions, it's... very strange.

"Actually, speaking of statements..." the Archivist muses.

He blinks a few times. Were they? Speaking of statements? His gaze drifts to the desk, _oh,_ those statements, he should get those to Sasha before she leaves.

"... Yes?"

"I. No, never mind, it... never mind."

"What?"

"Just... be careful. A lot of the avatars and monsters mentioned are still around, and many of them... don't like the institute, and by extension, you."

"Right..."

"Basically, try not to piss any of them off."

"I don't do it on purpose," he objects.

The Archivist raises an eyebrow.

"Well I don't _always._ Fine. If someone looks like they could kill me, I'll, be more... friendly, or whatever."

* * *

_Naomi lingers in his dreams. He felt every bit of her terror as she poured out her story to him, and feels every bit of it now as they stand in the swirling dreamscape, Naomi's desperate cries rising above the thick, numbing fog, parting so he sees her dirt and tear streaked face in the grave, trapped and Lonely._

_"Do you believe me now?"_

_He had. He did. He chose to turn a blind eye, even though he knew, knew about the Lonely and what it did to her and how to maybe help, but he'd left her to wallow in her own misfortunes, offered nothing, and now can only watch as the soft and aching fog shrouds both of them in its emptiness._

When he wakes, he has to remind himself it is only his mind torturing him, and there is every likelihood that Naomi is fine, now. That she has left that graveyard behind for good, that the Lonely hasn't pulled her back in.

He's not really that much of an optimist.

* * *

It is a cold winter day, and Jon is hiding in the office, pretending to digitize a box of statements.

Or, rather, he is digitizing a box of statements, and is pretending that is why he's shut in the office. It still needs to be done, after all; just because the vast majority of the institute's statements aren't real, doesn't mean he can ignore them entirely, not without raising some serious questions, and he does still want the archive digitized. It's entirely nothing to do with Tim asking him out for drinks with the assistants, and his own frantic scramble for any grasp of language while his mind went utterly blank, and the stuttered response that may have been positive, he isn't entirely sure, and really he'd rather not think about it at all, thank you.

So, he is simply going to stay in the office until the others have left. And possibly long after. He's got the cot after all, it wouldn't be the first night he's spent over. Then again, he hasn't been sleeping much lately. Hm. That might explain his reaction to Tim's query.

His cell phone buzzes in his pocket. When he opens it, there's three texts from an unknown number.

_You should definitely go.  
This is Jon by the way.  
The other one._

He stares at the little bubbles for a long minute, his mind somehow struggling with the image of _eldritch monster Archivist Jon_ owning a cell phone. It seems like such a _mundane_ thing.

He sends off a response.

_How did you get my number?_

Then.

_Did you use your evil knowing powers to get my cell phone number?_

_Maybe._

He puts the phone down, and leans his head into his hand.

The worst part is, he's considering it. They used to go out, now and again, he and Tim and whoever else the chipper bastard could drag along, often Sasha but sometimes other researchers as well. Well. _He_ didn't go all that often, but the few times he did, it had been... nice. Well. Somewhat awkward, he always talked too much or not enough, and he was fairly certain they didn't actually want him there, were just being polite no matter how much Tim had insisted otherwise, but it had been nice to see people outside of work and pretend he still had a social life.

But he's their boss now, and even after months of it he still isn't sure how this dynamic is supposed to work, is fairly certain he shouldn't be going out to bars with his assistants, doesn't know how he should interact with them outside of a work environment, is still certain they're just being polite after whatever disaster happened at Martin's birthday that he still can't really remember—

His thoughts are interrupted by another text.

_Yes they want you to come along. It'll be fine, just pretend it's like you're back in research, and don't bring up work._

He frowns.

_And I'm not reading your mind I just know you._

Ah, yes, because that makes it less unsettling.

_The last time I went out with them I apparently got to talking about emulsifiers.  
Emulsifiers!_

_And you had a good time!_

"I think if I did I'd remember it," he mutters aloud, then puts the phone aside. Yes, alright, he'd... not object to going, but he's not going to. It's just not a good idea.

The phone vibrates three times over the next five minutes, then stops. He continues updating his database for another ten before it goes off again, and this time he decides to just turn the wretched thing off.

He sees the most recent message, and opens the chat.

_Jon.  
We both know you want to go.  
It will not kill you to go out for one night.  
Jon. Go and be social or I'll tell them about the mechs._

_And how would you do that? You refuse to let them know about you._

_I have your voice and your handwriting and access to your email._

He groans. Right. Of course. And if they do, he's never going to hear the end of it.

_I hate you._

_Have fun!_

And so, several hours later, Jon finds himself pressed between Tim and Martin at some round bar table, clutching a cider and vaguely regretting his life decisions. It's loud, and warm, though the glass is nice and cool in his hands.

The four of them go through an inordinate amount of chips, Tim insisting that hot sauce is an appropriate garnish while Sasha looks him in the eyes and pours vinegar all over her and Jon's portion. (He devours his very quickly, and Tim notices, teasing him about not eating enough and he just looks down into his drink, he's been sipping at it slowly, then there's more chips again and he can't remember what they're celebrating, exactly, but Tim tells him not to worry and Sasha reaches over to squeeze his hand and Martin is just there, a warm, steady presence.)

He doesn't speak much, but they don't seem to mind: Tim and Sasha exchange banter throughout, Tim's vibrant voice ringing out and filling the space while Sasha cuts in with witty replies. Martin stutters and blushes when he joins in the talk, but there is a smile on his lips and when he breaks into a quiet, nervous laugh at some comment, Jon is surprised to find that this is perhaps the first time he's heard it. Laughter suits Martin, he thinks. He doesn't speak out—replies with few words when he's asked a question, nods along when appropriate, adds some details to a story Sasha is recounting—but he doesn't feel left out either, the conversation flowing around him, including him, instead of simply passing by.

All in all, the evening is busy, and loud, but... not unpleasant, he finds. He eats chips, and sips at cider, and listens, and feels, surprisingly, content.

Of course, things only get more complicated from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, projecting all over Jon: time for RSD and social awkwardness and Trans Thoughts  
> this is really just a time travel character study, huh.
> 
> also, season 1 jon has such a particular voice, and writing him without the constant denial of spooky shit really is a wild ride
> 
> next chapter: a book, and also some worms


	4. Anchor to Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archivist spaces out. Jon has a very long day. Martin has a _very_ long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *reluctantly ups the chapter count again*
> 
> This thing keeps getting away from me. Ah well. More room for fluff. And angst.
> 
> And now, time for a little plot.
> 
> (CW for unreality)

When Jon enters his office, there is something that is not waiting there for him. It is shaped like a person, if a person were also not, and his eyes slide off it like wet soap, for it isn't there and he therefore can't see it.

He freezes, the air catching in his throat, because _this is not and this is wrong,_ and prepares to bolt.

It shifts, and is suddenly _there,_ a nothing presence, a void that _hurts_ to look at, but that he can at least look at and which is, as far as he can tell, real.

It takes several long seconds of his mind screaming to _run_ before Jon remembers that this is the Archivist, this person-shaped hole in reality, and he's seen them like this before, when they first met, in glances from the corner of his eye. How could he have forgotten? It was never quite like this though. The edges of them flicker and warp, distorting like some digital glitch in reality, and the familiar weight of _knowing_ is gone, replaced by searing trails of pain as his mind tries to twist away from the impossible sight.

He leans into the doorframe, his fingers digging into the wood, dragging him back into reality, and he remembers to breathe.

"A-Archivist?" He stammers out.

They blink, vanish, reappear a second later, their edges fragmented. They fade in and out of being, motionless, frozen, and Jon does not so much hear screaming as _know_ it should be there, if the figure before him were more real (his own thoughts on the matter are at the same time both incredibly slippery and far too sharp; he is himself and here, and this is him but not? It can't be him because he is him, but they, _they,_ are also Jon, they are not him but still real and somehow _fading_ ).

_"I'd rather be Jon than... something else."_

He grasps onto that memory, and holds it tight, refuses to let it fray. What is happening to him? What is happening to _them?_ Is this what they had meant? What kind of becoming _hurts_ like this?

" _Jon?_ " he tries again. "Can you see me?"

There is a pressure building in his ears, choking his thoughts with white noise, and with a sudden _crack_ it is gone, and with it his balance, as he collapses to the floor. Everything is pins and needles and knives and _wrong,_ and he feels like he might be sick, but his thoughts have stopped spinning in cutting circles so there is that, at least.

The Archivist— _Jon,_ they're still Jon, he has to remember that, can't deny them a name just because he happens to share it—is looking down at him, is no longer not-real, is once again a worn and wearied copy of himself with eyes too deep and sharp.

"What happened? Are you alright?" They ask, voice high and breathy, worried eyes darting around the room like they are unsure of where they are.

"Am I—? _I'm_ fine, you're the one who... _glitched._ "

"What?"

"I don't know, you sort of... faded? It was like you weren't really... there."

"I..."

They pat down their coat pockets and remove a small blue and grey book, hardly the size of their hand, and stare at it with a mix of annoyance and worry.

 _Leitner,_ Jon's mind supplies immediately, because what else could it be, and his eyes narrow suspiciously at the innocuous volume. What are they doing with a Leitner?

He waits for them to open it, read it, to do anything, really, but they just stare at it for a long moment before glancing back at him, and he can't quite tell what emotion is present on their face but it isn't positive. They shove the book back in their pocket, and take a shaky breath.

"I need to go," they state, and brush past him to do exactly that.

"Wait, what? What is that?" he tries to ask, tries to stop them leaving, because they _always do this,_ leave when things start getting complicated or turning back to them, but his head spins as they skirt around him and through the door and then they are gone, and Jon is left with nothing but a throbbing headache and far too many questions.

Most notably, _what the fuck was that?_

He unfolds himself from the floor, and at the next pulse of soft pain, he runs a hand through his hair, teasing the rough strands between shaking fingers, pulling and twisting and gently removing it from its tie, letting the shoulder length curls fall around his face. There's more grey than he remembers. Or maybe he just hasn't taken a good look at it in some time.

There's a difference, he is realising, between knowing fear itself is an active, malevolent force, and having it manifest before him, where he can no longer see it from a purely objective view, can no longer push it aside when it gets uncomfortable, and must instead cope with the reality (or lack thereof) before him. And of course it scares him, of course it does, that's the _point,_ and knowing about it doesn't always help because he always seems to be in that odd stage of knowing enough to theorize but not enough to actually understand. Objectively, sure, he knows Jon's glitch could be related to the Spiral, or their very Stranger-like tendancies, if they aren't too close to the Eye to be affected by other powers, but knowing what powers are potentially involved doesn't help understand what _happened._

Hopefully the Archivist knows, though he has his doubts as to whether they'll actually tell him. For someone that belongs to a being of knowledge, they keep a lot of secrets.

* * *

The Archivist returns several hours later; slamming the door to his office open loud enough that Jon nearly jumps out of his skin. Again.

"Christ, can you not!?" He exclaims, pulse racing, trying to calm his shaky breaths. They're going to give him a heart attack one of these days. Would be nice if one of the perks to serving a fear god was immunity to jumpscares, but no, so far all he's picked up are guilt-driven nightmares, supernatural job security for a position that is definitely underpaying him, and the knowledge that he is well and truly in over his head.

Tim and Sasha must be out for lunch, then, if the Archivist is here. They wouldn't risk running into them.

"Give me your phone."

Jon blinks a few times.

"What?"

"Cell phone. Give."

He fumbles the phone from his pocket, and they stalk over and snatch it from his still trembling fingers, tapping frantically at the screen.

"The password's—"

"Got it."

Right.

Jon takes a good long look at the Archivist. There's no remnants of whatever distortion had come over them earlier, no fragments of needle-sharp unreality, and no sign of the Leitner either (though he reasons it might simply be back in their pocket). Their shadow is too faint, and their footsteps make no sound, but that is nothing new. Their hair is slipping from its messy bun, silver strands gleaming in the light, errant curls bouncing around their face as they pace the room.

He opens his mouth to ask about the morning's incident, because there's no way he's letting _that_ whole thing slide with only a few cryptic words, but they start speaking first.

"Martin has encountered Jane Prentiss," they offer by way of explanation. "She trapped him and has his phone. She's the one who's been responding to your texts."

... Oh.

Prentiss. Christ. She is, of course, still very much an active project in the institute, but in the last few months of... adjustment, he hadn't been putting as many resources behind tracking her whereabouts as he would have liked, busy as he was connecting other names between statements and looking for patterns related to the fourteen and their avatars (despite the Archivist admitting they are only a part of the whole, a simple way of fragmenting fear that leaves much to be desired and is more useful for connecting patterns than concretely sorting monsters and encounters). Sloppy, really. He'd known she was still out there, especially since they'd looked into Hodge's statement, yet somehow this hadn't translated to keeping more of an eye on the actively dangerous avatar of filth.

He looks between their focused face and their fingers tapping at his phone, puts two and two together, and really, really hopes he is wrong.

"What are you doing?"

"Asking her to leave."

Damn.

"You're texting a murderous worm monster?"

"Yes?"

They look surprised at his concern. He can feel a twitch starting in his eye.

"Why are you using _my_ phone?"

"I figured she'd respond if she thought it was you."

"Well, did she?"

"Not yet, we'll give her a minute."

They are, apparently, unconcerned with the idea of casually messaging the local evil flesh hive, which is not _reassuring_ by any means. He sighs, and hopes they know what they're doing.

"Right. Do you think that'll... work?"

They shrug. Fantastic. "It's worth a shot. If not, I can always confront her. I do know of one way to fight her off."

"And what is that?"

"CO2, actually. Fire extinguishers. It's dangerous in high concentrations, but it's even more deadly to her worms."

"Right... Right, we've got a few around, I'll check to see if they're CO2. We should get more either way, if she's going after my assistants I want some way to fight back."

Jon hears the phone vibrate across the room, and the Archivist's eyes light up as they tap out a response.

"Is that her?"

"Yes."

They send off the message, and continue pacing. Something writhes and twists in Jon's stomach at the thought of Prentiss messaging him (them, both of them) with Martin's phone. It's _wrong._

He takes a deep breath, and tries not to think about it too closely. Intellectually speaking, he does not mind bugs, or mold, or disease. But even having only read the one corruption statement, Hodge and his encounter, the idea of the Filth, its plague and rot and squirming insects, is something that has his fingers tingling, sets him on edge. He does not like the corruption.

"How long has she been after him?" He asks, twisting a pen between his fingers to distract from the feel of his skin crawling.

"Martin's been trapped for... 8 days. I think I... lost some time..." they mutter, face turned away and looking down at the floor. "That's what I get, for... Still, it's... ah... he'll be glad to be out."

"Yes, well, speaking of lost time... What happened earlier? You seemed to have at least some idea. And why the Leitner?"

"Technically it's not a Leitner. He never got his hands on this one."

"That is besides the point."

The phone buzzes quietly again. They simply scowl at the screen before turning it off.

Jon, however, is not letting this conversation go. They seem to realise this, and tense up.

"I... The short answer is, I'm not, ah... entirely stable. This reality doesn't like me."

"That really _doesn't explain anything._ "

"Well _it'll have to do._ "

They cross their arms, and Jon recognises the stubborn set in their jaw ( _his_ jaw, he knows that expression too well) that means he won't be getting any answers, and isn't that particularly frustrating.

"I thought you didn't like hiding information," Jon retorts.

"It's _complicated._ And this is personal."

"Not when it gives me a migraine trying to think about you," he mutters, actively refraining from crossing his own arms in a mirror of his doppelganger.

 _Personal._ It feels a strange concept with them, after they go on about the two of them being essentially the same person, right down to the little mannerisms, yet somehow completely different. And that's the problem, isn't it. There's a part of him that still feels far too vulnerable around this _other him,_ who knows almost everything about him and can Know anything else they like, but who guards their own secrets so closely and hints at things they never explain. He doesn't have enough pieces to put anything together and it's _frustrating._

"Sorry," they sigh. "It's just... I can't. There's a lot at work here, and... I'm not ready for that, not yet."

"Fine. _Fine._ Keep your damn secrets."

Their expression turns sad again, which just causes Jon's scowl to deepen. If they feel bad about hiding things they could simply _not._

They look off into the middle distance, and Jon feels something prickle along his arms and neck as their _presence_ seems to get stronger. After a moment, they breathe a sigh of relief, and the feeling fades.

"She's gone. Prentiss. Honestly wasn't sure if that would work."

"Martin's fine then?"

"Yes, he's safe. I imagine he'll wait to be sure she's truly gone, but he should be 'round soon."

"He's coming here?"

"Where else would he go?"

... Right.

"Here."

Jon looks up to see his phone flying back at him, which he just manages to catch, although not gracefully.

They are gone by the time he looks back.

He sighs and opens his messages. Below Martin's... _Prentiss'_ last text about being sick, there are four messages.

_Jane, you've had your fun. Let him go or I will deal with you personally._

_It would be our pleasure, Archivist._

_I'm not that Archivist. I'm something much worse._

_How intriguing. We look forward to the encounter._

A shudder creeps along his spine, and he rubs at his arms, suddenly overcome with the feeling of dozens of tiny, squirming things creeping across his skin. He, most certainly, is _not_ looking forward to it.

And he really doesn't like the sound of _something much worse,_ whatever that means.

Martin does show up at the archives several hours later—along with a container of silvery, _still-squirming_ worms, which he slams onto Jon's desk with a wild expression. He gives a statement, and looks stunned when Jon simply accepts the truth of it, which... yes, alright, that makes sense, but he can pretend to not believe most of the statements and still accept that Prentiss is a threat.

And he offered Martin his cot in document storage, so the Archivist can't get on his case about being an ass to Martin again. And it really does feel like the least he should do; if Martin hadn't felt the need to prove himself to him, he wouldn't have ended up in this position, wouldn't have been _trapped by a horde of flesh worms_ for over a week. That guilt is crawling through his throat throughout the rest of the day, and flares up every time he sees the other man rub at his arms or his neck or flinch at a shadow shifting just the wrong way.

He updates Tim and Sasha on the situation, confirms that, yes, the fire extinguishers in the archives are CO2 based, and makes sure to set one by the cot. Come tomorrow, he'll see what can be done as far as investigation; he doesn't want Prentiss off his radar for a moment, and with a little planning and a way to fight the worms, he feels confident enough to follow up on the encounter and keep up with her movements.

Although, maybe he'll do this one himself. He doesn't want anyone else getting hurt. Just in case something goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: a lot more worms (and some actual JonMartin interaction)


	5. Waiting is the Worst Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias is vaguely ominous. Jon starts realising. Martin makes tea. The worms spread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! Have a long chapter to make up for it.
> 
> And thanks again to everyone that's commented, they mean the world to me

"Well, I'll admit the current system could certainly stand to be updated, it's rather old, but why CO2 in particular?"

Jon hadn't been able to find any clues to Prentiss' whereabouts around Martin's flat (and he hadn't been able to investigate alone, as all three of the assistants had ambushed him outside the flat and refused to take no for an answer), but now, a few weeks later, they've started seeing worms around the institute. And given Prentiss' ominous message and the fact that she was, apparently, patient enough to stand outside a door knocking for over a week, he feels justified in preparing for the worst.

(He's not entirely sure what the worst is but by God he's going to be prepared for it.)

He'd requisitioned more fire extinguishers for the archives, but had recently decided he might as well go all in, and see if Elias would (finally) update the fire suppression system for the institute; and then he'd ran into Elias in the hall, and decided bringing it up face to face was the simplest way to get the job done.

He vaguely regrets that decision now, as Elias looks up at him with his politely professional mask and bores holes into Jon with his piercing eyes. Jon squirms under his gaze, and resists the urge to straighten his tie.

"I..."

Jon has done his research (he's good at that; he knows that). There are a number of good reasons to switch to a CO2 based system, which he could easily present to justify his request. But he doesn't feel right _justifying_ this, because there is a very particular reason it needs to be CO2 and he wants to be upfront about that. He does have some respect for his boss.

So, he explains the current Prentiss situation (skirting around any details involving the Archivist); her interest in himself and Martin, the worms they've seen lurking around, and the effectiveness of CO2 in killing them. At that particular detail, Elias seems to straighten up even further, and Jon's stomach immediately drops as he is hit with the distinct feeling that he's said something wrong.

"Does it? Interesting. Where did you learn that?"

"I... one of the statements, probably. Must have been."

"Are you certain?"

"Well I... must have read it somewhere."

Elias hums thoughtfully, his eyes bright, but doesn't push further. He mutteres something about budgeting but agrees to look into it, and then excuses himself to get to a meeting, leaving Jon to head back to the archives.

The cast to his eyes reminds Jon a little too much of the Archivist's _knowing_ stare, and despite their reassurances that his boss can't actually read his thoughts ( _any more,_ and someday he's going to have to figure out how he feels about all of _that,_ when he's not preoccupied with evil flesh worms), Elias definitely knows far more than he lets on and Jon can't quite shake the feeling that he somehow knows about his doppelganger as well.

He stops dead. Unless Elias thinks he's _Knowing_ things.

Like the other Jon.

_Like the Archivist._

He knows the Head Archivist position is tied to the Eye, and therefore so is he, and that Elias knows what all the position entails, what it can be. And he hasn't actually been Knowing things, but if Elias is expecting that from him, he can't help but wonder just what other... _quirks_ he might acquire. What sort of thing the Eye might eventually turn him into.

Had the other Jon chosen the Archivist title for that reason? As... what, a message? A warning? They'd introduced themself as that first, when he'd surprised them, and... had Elias called him that too? Hard to recall specifically, but, yes, he is fairly certain Elias had called him the Archivist whenever referring to his new position.

Hm.

He had assumed his _becoming_ as an avatar of Beholding would be closer to whatever Elias went through. Physically, it hasn't seemed to affect him, though he'd guess that his eyes hadn't always been quite that sharp. The other Jon hardly seems like something that was once _human,_ even if vaguely human shaped.

(Or maybe Elias has Knowing powers as well, and it's an incredibly common Eye ability, and he's simply overthinking this. He would do that.)

They had said he wouldn't become like them. They'd been very clear about that. He doesn't have a reason to suspect they'd lied.

And then Sasha meets Michael.

After she leaves the office, Jon sits and thinks about spirals and becoming and another monster with a decidedly normal name and illusion of a face and he has to wonder where the real Michael is. If there was one. If that is him (or what's left of him).

On the desk before him is a recorder, still containing the tape from Sasha's statement. He's been meaning to record the follow-up notes for... a while, but his mind keeps wandering.

He really shouldn't be doing this.

If he were smart, he wouldn't be recording statements at all. He wouldn't be reading them, wouldn't be trying to solve the mysteries they so tantalizingly dangled in front of him. He'd burn the lot of them, and run far away, and hope that the Eye got bored of him eventually and left him well enough alone.

Instead, he throws himself into the work, and tries not to think about how easily his humanity could slip away. He's in too deep already, always has been, caught in a web of truth and lies and fear that spans two hundred years and spreads across the world, and all that knowledge is at his fingertips and he _itches_ to unravel it and lay it bare and _know._

Instead, he presses the button, and narrates his post-statement thoughts into the spinning wheels. Sasha's encounter with Michael brings up a lot of thoughts he'd had about "helpful" supernatural beings when he first met the other Jon; they've been cryptic and unsettling, yes, but... they have been helpful. Thoughtful. Kind. So he has to hope that maybe this Michael, too, is not entirely an antagonistic force. They'd already known about the CO2 (and _that_ had been fun to explain, he suspected they also didn't buy "read it somewhere, no I don't remember which statement"), but the confirmation is nice.

A light knocking snaps him out of his head, and he just remembers to turn off the recorder before responding.

"Come in."

The door creaks open, and Martin's familiar silhouette peeks in through the opening.

"You, um... doing alright?" He asks, eyes darting around as his fingers curl around the edge of the door. "It's half seven. I-I noticed the light was on and I just thought I'd... check in."

Jon blinks. Has he really been sitting here all day?

"I'm fine, Martin. Just finishing up."

"Oh, o-okay. Well, if you want anything, I'll be... here."

"Yes, _thank you,_ Martin."

Martin accepts the dismissal with a stammered _right_ and closes the door.

Jon sighs into his hand. That was... probably harsh. He is very suddenly aware of just how _tired_ he is; it drags at his shoulders and clings to his eyes and sits heavy in his bones. His mind wanders again to Sasha's tale. The written statements are always rough on him; are the live ones the same? Worse? He's only done a few, not enough to tell.

He debates staying the night. Martin has the cot occupied, but there's always the break room sofa, and he's still got a change of clothes tucked away in a filing cabinet drawer. Probably. Then again, it's Martin's space now, and he doesn't want to intrude.

He... should probably head home.

He tries to stand, and immediately winces as his stiff limbs protest the sudden movement after hours of inactivity, joints cracking loudly and sharp pain lancing up his bad leg. It's definitely gotten worse since this morning. He grabs the cane from where it's set against the desk, and leans into it. It does help, but the thought of the long ride back to his flat makes his lip curl in distaste, and his limbs ache with exhaustion.

No, he's not going to be making it home tonight. The sofa will have to do.

Martin is in the break room when he makes his way over, leaning against the counter, on his phone, the kettle heating up behind him. His head jerks up at the _click_ of the door.

"Oh, h-hi, ah... you heading out, then?"

"No, my, ah, leg is acting up, I'd rather not deal with the tube tonight."

"Oh. Um. D-did you want the cot, then? I don't mind—"

"No, the sofa will do just fine."

"Really, it's—"

"Martin. You're... living here, now, I'm not going to kick you from your bed. I'll be fine."

Martin frowns, but doesn't push the issue.

"If it makes you feel better, I've fallen asleep on far worse," Jon offers.

"It... not really?"

Jon hums in response, and makes his way over to the sofa in the back corner, his joints and the worn frame creaking in tandem as he settles down. The kettle turns off with a soft _click,_ and Martin pauses with a mug in his hand.

"Do you want tea?" he asks.

"Alright."

Martin pulls down a second mug, and sets bags in both to steep. He then glances over to the sofa, and leaves the room, returning after a minute with a pile of folded blankets in his arms.

"Here. Um. These are yours, I think— W-well, obviously, they were on your cot, um, but I really only use the one so, uh, here. If you're going to be sleeping on that thing might as well be comfortable, right?"

"Oh. Um, yes, I'll just— take those, then."

Martin deposits the blankets in Jon's arms, and hurries off to finish making the tea. Jon's cheeks burn a little as he accepts them; it had gotten cold in the archives during winter, and sue him, he likes blankets. He sets them down on the sofa beside him and, after a moment's deliberation, decides he'll use the smallest as a pillow. The cushions are not the most comfortable.

"Here."

Jon takes the mug from Martin's outstretched hand, inhaling the soft scent of camomile before tasting it.

"Mm. Thank you."

... Alright, so maybe he's starting to appreciate Martin's presence on the team.

"Um. D'you mind if I..."

Martin gestures to the other side of the sofa, and Jon gestures for him to go ahead. Martin sits and takes a sip from his own mug, a tiny patch of fog creeping up the bottom of his glasses from the steam. Jon finds himself fascinated by the texture, watching as it fades and grows with his breath.

Martin catches his eye after a moment, and Jon busies himself with his tea, grateful that his skin doesn't show an obvious blush. A quick glance shows that Martin has turned a bright red all up to his ears, and is also hiding behind his mug.

They're great at this, the both of them. Just wonderful.

A few minutes pass in silence, the tension slowly fading as they drink their tea, and Jon feels a tiny spark of relief as Martin pulls out his (new, worm-free) phone and starts scrolling through something. He is not feeling particularly up to conversation. The quiet is nice.

_Worm-free._

A thought hits him like a punch to the gut, and he quickly sets his tea down and fumbles out his own phone, checking the date of his (the other Jon's) texts to Prentiss.

Martin's been living in the archives for almost a month.

He hasn't heard from the Archivist in almost a month. He hadn't _noticed._

How had he not _noticed?_

He goes to check their messages—had he gotten a text and forgotten? Not responded? It had certainly happened before—and stops short. Their number is gone. There's nothing. No contact, no message history. Had he deleted it? Unlikely, he doesn't delete contacts, and that would at least leave the messages—

"Jon?"

" _What._ "

"S-sorry. Um. Are you alright? You looked a bit..."

"I'm fine."

Martin does not look convinced. Jon sighs.

"It's nothing, just... I can't seem to find one of my contacts."

"Oh. You didn't rename it something weird by accident? Cause I did that once, took me almost a week to figure out—"

" _No,_ I did not. It's just... gone."

"It's not one of us, is it? Cause if it's me, I could text you, o-or if it's Tim or Sasha I could ask them—"

"No, it's... a friend of mine."

Martin could not look more surprised if Jon had suddenly sprouted a third eye.

"I have _friends,_ " he scowls.

"R-right, sorry."

Jon turns back to his phone, scanning his (admittedly short) contacts list again, just to be sure he's not missing something.

"Like... like outside of work?"

Jon glares at him.

"Sorry!" Martin squeaks.

He checks again. Just to be sure. Nothing.

"Must have deleted it," he mutters. "I'll just... wait for them to text."

It's the only reasonable explanation. There's no way anything supernatural can benefit from messing with his phone. The simplest answers are the most likely.

... Unless something doesn't want him talking with them? He doesn't have any other way of communicating with them, and no idea of where to start looking. He's only ever seen them in the archives. They could be literally anywhere—

Nope. That is an entire thought train he _does not_ want to lose himself down tonight. He can take another look tomorrow. Google how to retrieve lost contacts, or something.

He needs a distraction.

"So. See any... movies lately?"

Martin has not, in fact, seen many movies recently, but apparently they have a shared interest in true crime shows, and soon they are lost in a conversation about their favourite shows and debating realism versus artistic licence and running off into an enthusiastic discussion of mystery tropes in general. And if they talk long into the evening, it's no one's business but their own.

* * *

It is two weeks later, when Jon is in the break room eating lunch, that a shadow falls over the floor, and he looks up to see the other Jon, standing in the doorway. Their hair is a frazzled halo of black and silver and diamond raindrops and they are grinning wide, breathing heavily through bared teeth, tan coat dappled dark from the rain, the ends of their striped scarf swinging gently.

And they're... wearing sunglasses. That's new.

"Where have you been?" He demands, standing, food forgotten as he is swept by a rush of relief. Six weeks of silence, no way to contact them. He'd been _worried._

They lean against the doorway, arms crossed, still smiling. Smug bastard.

"Sorry about... that. Do you know how hard it is for me to get in and out of the institute unseen with the tunnels full of worms? I had to use the second floor fire escape. I did not know how to pick locks until yesterday. Learn how to pick locks, it's a useful skill. And there are so many cameras upstairs. And _so many eyes._ Literally everywhere. Let it not be said that Magnus is subtle."

Right, that is entirely too much to unpack at once, but one thing in particular jumps out.

"Sorry, sorry tunnels? What tunnels?"

A few minutes later, they are in document storage and the other Jon is lifting a perfectly concealed trapdoor in the hardwood floor. The scent of stale, earthy rot drifts from the darkness, and Jon is unsure if he is imagining the squirming sound of the worms.

He's both amazed and annoyed that during the many times he's searched this room for signs of their activity, he's never found this trapdoor. But it does explain why he's never before seen them entering or leaving the institute.

"So these go— how far?"

"Very. And the geography doesn't work quite right, sometimes they change."

"That sounds... unsettling."

"Yes..."

He glances over to the other Jon, who, best he can tell, is lost in thought, just staring down into the dark tunnels with a pensive expression on their face.

"So, what's with the uh... glasses?" he asks after a long moment.

"What? Oh, those are for the... eye contact. Avoiding it. Better than walking around with them closed. Can't go around terrorising the public!"

"Right... So Prentiss is down there?"

"Yes. Her worms are filling most of the tunnels directly under the institute, building up their numbers. Unfortunately, my powers don't work well enough down there to reliably get around them. I've had to retreat, move further down, find other exits. Sorry I couldn't get through. I have been trying."

"I tried texting you—"

They shake their head.

"Couple of levels down, there's no signal at all. There's barely signal down _here,_ and the tunnels are also vaguely supernatural."

"I was _going_ to say—I tried texting you, but your number disappeared from my phone."

"... Oh. That's... probably not good. Did it come back?"

"Did it—no?"

"Are you sure?"

Jon raises an eyebrow, but pulls out his phone anyways, if only to prove himself right. Except. It is back. Both their contact and their messages. As though they'd never disappeared.

"That's... what?"

"Yep."

"... Why? How?"

"Another... glitch. If it happens again, just, ah... try again next time you remember."

"That's... not helpful?"

"Reality doesn't like me."

"That's _also not helpful?_ "

They shrug again. Jon rolls his eyes.

_Don't know why I bother._

"So... did you say you've been _living_ down there?" he asks.

"Yes. It's, ah... normally not full of the corruption."

"Mm. High standards, I see."

"It's... safe."

He gives the tunnel entrance another long look. Even from out here, there's something sinister about it, something that tingles across his skin and presses into his throat; the darkness beyond the entrance seems a little too deep, the stone heavy with the weight of the earth, the scent of rot creeping upwards.

It feels like the opposite of safe.

(But, safe for them... or safe for others?)

"Do you... ah... Lately I've been spending more nights with Martin in the archives—"

"With Martin?"

"Yes? Oh, he's been staying here since Prentiss—"

"No, I know that, it's just... there's only the one bed?"

"I got another one." He'd woken up on the break room sofa those weeks back with aches from head to toe, and decided that if Martin didn't mind the intrusion on what was essentially now his living space, he might as well get a second cot and continue spending the occasional night over.

"Oh."

"My _point_ is, I've been staying at the institute more often, so if you need... somewhere to go, my flat is available."

The other Jon's head whips towards him, shock written all over their face even under the dark glasses, and Jon struggles to breathe under the sudden weight of knife sharp eyes staring _right through him._

It lasts only a moment before they seem to realise they're doing it, and then the feeling is gone.

"Sorry, ah... You... Really?"

"I-I did offer."

There is a part of him that screams letting the eldritch eye monster into his home is a really, really bad idea. He beats it back soundly and wonders if he should get extra groceries.

"I... If you're sure. I... thank you. At least, until we can deal with Prentiss. I don't think her worms can hurt me in any meaningful way, but I'd rather not go through that again if I can avoid it."

"Again? You've encountered her before?"

"Ah... yes, a while back."

"Do you... would you be willing to make a statement—"

" _No._ "

"Oh."

The silence sits heavy between them, and Jon finds his eyes drawn to the collection of scars across his doppelganger's skin... and realises the small circular ones are exactly the size of the worms they've been seeing around the institute.

There are... a lot of them.

He swallows to quell the budding nausea at the thought of dozens of supernatural worms _eating into their flesh._

"S-so," he starts. "Do you... have any ideas of how to deal with her?"

"Well, we can't get her down there, far too many passages and branches. There's no way to corner her and she'll just be able to retreat and regroup, possibly surround us. She's definitely got the advantage while in the tunnels."

"So, what, we lure her out?"

"Precisely. Here's what I'm thinking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely forgot I could link my [tumblr](https://falling-forever-upwards.tumblr.com). Come say hello!
> 
> Up next: plans for Prentiss


	6. Breathe, Hold Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans and fears are discussed. Jon contemplates life at an ungodly hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being really soft and I am absolutely not sorry. Jon and Jon and Co. deserve a little break before shit goes down.
> 
> And I'd just like to say, I loved everyone's reaction to Elias last chapter (B!tchard get fucked challenge). Also, finally updated the character tags! We'll be seeing more of the lovely archives crew from here on out so I figured it was about time.
> 
> CW for alcohol mention, stranger-typical body horror, negative body image

"Jon that is a horrible plan."

Sasha's arms are crossed, mouth set in that little frown that shows she means business, eyes looking up at him above the rim of her glasses. She, Tim, and Martin are sat in a collection of chairs from around the archives, across from Jon's desk, which he is currently leaning against after spending some time restlessly pacing the office, hands fluttering along with his words as he explains the Archivist's plan. He thinks better when he's moving.

"Look, we need to lure her out of the tunnels, and she's coming after me, for some reason, so it only makes sense."

"We're not using you as _bait_ to catch a—a worm person!" Martin protests.

"I'd like to know more about the creepy murder tunnels, actually," Tim pipes up. "I feel like that's kind of important."

"They're not murder tunnels, they're—actually I don't know, I haven't been in them."

"Because they're full of worms."

"Yes."

" _Supernatural_ worms."

"... Yes."

"Yeah, um..." Martin speaks up, "About that. Since when do you, uh, actually believe in the supernatural?"

Jon sighs. "Look, that's not important. We're getting off topic. If any of you have a better plan, I would very much like to hear it. Otherwise, this is at least a good starting point."

"It relies on a lot of variables we can't exactly control," Sasha protests. "How do you know she'll come out when you break the wall? Where is this timeframe coming from? Why do you think she's coming after you, specifically?"

"She texted me."

"... Sorry, what?"

"Seriously?" Tim interjects.

"She had Martin's phone, while he was trapped. She said she looked forward to meeting me."

"... Bit forward, isn't it?"

"Tim."

"No, okay, that's... good," Sasha says. "That's one thing we can be reasonably sure of. But you don't know why?"

"No idea. I'm still trying to find her statement, I'm hoping it will... provide some sort of insight. To answer your other questions, I have... a friend, who has a lot more experience in dealing with... all of this. They've had dealings with Prentiss before, and they were the one who found out where she went after she left Martin's place."

"What, like a supernatural P.I.?" Tim asks.

"Something like that, sure."

"And you trust their information?" Sasha presses.

"I do."

"Wait, we're not actually considering this?" Martin asks, looking around at everyone with his eyes wide. "... Are we? This is _Jane Prentiss._ She's really, really dangerous—"

"I _know,_ Martin. Believe me, I know. Which is why we need to make the next move. The Corruption doesn't plan, it just... festers, until it gets an opportunity, which we can use to our advantage."

"That's the second time you've mentioned corruption," Sasha remarks. "Are you saying Prentiss has been... corrupted by something? Taken over?"

"In a sense, yes. That is actually something I've been meaning to bring up. Have any of you heard of Smirke's Fourteen?"

"I think..." Tim begins, "I've seen it mentioned once or twice in reference to his architecture, but I can't find anything that explains what it means."

Jon takes a deep breath.

"Right. Smirke's Fourteen, or the fourteen fears, is a way of classifying supernatural phenomena. Essentially, the concept of fear itself is an actively malevolent force, and for simplification, this force is often broken down into fourteen different entities, each corresponding to a different primordial terror..."

He explains... almost everything. Entities. Avatars. Monsters. The institute's connection to Beholding. Elias and his powers. The Distortion and Prentiss and their connection to the fears. They ask a few questions but for the most part he just talks, and talks, as a knot of uncertainty begins to take root in his throat at how calmly this seems to be going.

(He doesn't talk about his own unique bond to the Eye. He isn't ready for that. Doesn't want to think about the Archivist, and his own potential Becoming, and the parallels thereof, because looming there is the shape of something that makes him very, very afraid.)

(He especially doesn't want to tell them that he's heading down that path about as fast as he can go, and he isn't sure if he feels like he needs to, if he truly has no choice... or if he wants to. Because he knows he can't stop now.)

He finishes off with the part about being unable to quit, sans going blind. The room is filled with a heavy silence, enough to choke, and Jon's throat closes up as he starts fidgeting with a pen. All three assistants are staring at him, and the weight of their eyes is just reminiscent enough of Beholding to set him on edge. Martin is pale as a ghost, Sasha looks... concerned, and Tim's face is unusually blank, though there is the shadow of... something, lurking in his eyes.

Tim is the one who speaks up first.

"Jon. In all seriousness. What the fuck."

"It's, um... yeah."

"It's a little more than _yeah._ You're telling me we're trapped here. In the spooky, definitely underpaid job where we're bound to the god of voyeurism, and being assaulted by supernatural worms."

"... Yes. I... I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"And you're absolutely sure about this?"

"He's right," Martin responds quietly.

"What?"

"I-I mean... About quitting. I've tried. Sat down to write a resignation letter, twice now. I couldn't... couldn't seem to go through with it. If we're... I dunno, supernaturally stuck here... I-I guess that makes sense."

"... Fuck," Tim sighs.

"Jon..." Sasha begins, and her careful tone immediately sends a spike of anxiety through him. "Are you... alright?"

"I... What?"

"It's not that I don't believe you," she rushes to reassure him, "I do, I think. All of... _that,_ explains a lot about everything we've been looking into. And once it really settles in I'll probably have to... adjust. To that. But, it's just that... You go from tearing apart these statements to going on about _fear gods,_ overnight. It's kind of a drastic change. Did something happen?"

"Not... exactly." Not recently, at least. "I just... realised I can't do this alone. And you all deserve to know what's really going on in this place." And also the other Jon had looked at him really sadly when he'd admitted he hadn't told the others about the fears, and then lectured him on trust, and made him promise to bring it up at the earliest possible convenience. He knows they're right, _as usual,_ but he can still feel salty about _them_ lecturing _him_ on _trust._

Martin's expression changes, and Jon once again wishes he actually understood human emotion. Tim he's been learning how to read for two years, and he's still unsure most of the time.

"Jon... you don't—"

"Right!" Tim exclaims, standing and clapping his hands. "I don't know about you lot, but I need to re-evaluate my entire perception of the universe. Who wants to come over to mine and watch shit movies until three a.m.? No work discussion allowed."

Jon ignores the very pointed glare Tim sends in his direction.

"Tim, it's... ten in the morning."

"And apparently I can't be fired! So Elias and his freaky eye powers can get fucked."

"I didn't... No, you're right. I'll write you all off for the day, and tomorrow as well."

"Oh you're coming too."

"I appreciate the offer, but I really do need—"

"If you say you need to "get stuff done" at our _spooky Eye temple_ I will disown you right now."

"Oh, is that all it takes?"

"Wow, harsh."

But there's the hint of a smile creeping across Tim's face now, and that makes him feel just a little bit better. He knows this is a lot, especially all at once, and he's glad Tim is at least feeling well enough about it to banter.

"... Fine, alright, I'll come. But we're not watching that horrible cheerleading movie again."

"I did say shit movies. And _Bring It On_ is a classic."

"No, I have to agree with Jon on this one."

"Sasha you wound me!"

"I think you can take it," she teases, then stands. "I'll bring wine. And I'll meet you guys there, I... need a minute."

"R-right, of course," Jon responds, and Sasha leaves the office, the door closing behind her with a soft _click._ Jon's gaze lands on Martin, who is still sitting in his chair, looking very intently at his hands. His glasses are just starting to slip down his nose, and Jon has a wild thought about reaching over to fix them for him.

"Martin? Are you..."

"I-I'm ah, yeah. I'm fine. I'll come. Movie night sounds great."

"Great!" Tim exclaims, clapping a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Let's go then, I'm not spending any more time here than is absolutely necessary."

Tim's sofa is not meant to fit four people. This does not stop them from piling on in a tangle of limbs and throw blankets that Jon reluctantly admits is actually quite comfortable, though he would rather die than admit this out loud.

They order pizza and drink wine and talk over the movie about the acting and the shoehorned romance plot and nothing at all important, and Jon makes one comment about camera angles that leads to an entire rant about framing and staging and lights and when Sasha encourages him to _"go off!"_ he stutters for a moment and then remembers that _this is a good space_ and he continues with a smile on his face.

"What about respirators?" Martin pipes up sometime during the third movie, something with a lot of dancing. Tim apparently owns a surprising number of movies about dancing and Jon has no idea how he tells any of them apart; the music in this one isn't half bad though, and he finds himself humming along occasionally.

"Hm?"

"Respirators. For the CO2. So we can, y'know, breathe, but still blast Prentiss."

"... Martin that's brilliant."

"Nice one Marto!"

"... How come he's allowed to talk about work?"

" _Jon._ "

"Fine, alright. Good idea, Martin."

"Oh, uh. Thanks!"

* * *

_Jon dreams of the Cambridge Military Hospital. The floor is covered in scraps of peeled paint and leaf litter, and Melanie King's shoes make no sound as she walks across the detritus. Something he imagines to be Sarah Baldwin stalks across the room, her smile too wide, and two other faceless figures move in tandem with her, their motions awkward and stiff. Jon watches, as the thing wearing the skin of Sarah Baldwin dances around Melanie, movements becoming jerky and loping and the skin starting to melt into something so inhuman and wrong. Neither of the others take any notice, their blank faces motionless. Melanie looks around, eyes wide, and makes eye contact with him, asking what's going on. The skin around her mouth is loose. The smell of blood sits heavy over everything. There is fear in her eyes. There is fear in the air. There is fear singing along his skin and dancing across his tongue, and he does nothing but watch as the thing no longer pretending to be Sarah Baldwin slowly starts to peel the softening skin from Melanie's body._

Jon wakes with her scream fresh on his mind, blood pounding in his ears. He feels raw. Stretched too thin. _Energised._ Exhausted. Seen.

Something grips his throat tight, and he forces himself to breathe. The statement hadn't even been that bad, comparatively speaking. Yes it was frightening, all the statements were, but the ghost spiders had been worse. Hell, _Martin's_ had been worse. Why is _this_ the one his subconscious gets stuck on?

He'd even been nice to Melanie. Had admitted he believed her, explained the tapes. Had remembered hearing the name Sarah Baldwin before and promised to look into it. She'd left seeming... unsettled, but not unhappy. For once, he'd thought that had been handled rather well.

It doesn't make sense.

He sits up properly, and there is a brief moment where he does not recognise the shape of the room around him, wonders where the shelves and boxes have gone to, before he remembers he is in his flat, and not the archives. The bedroom is cast in shades of grey and blue, a faint glow from the nearby street light cutting across the floor. The sun isn't up yet.

It is... a little after five in the morning. Jon sighs, and stretches, feeling something pop. He's not getting back to sleep, might as well get a head start on the day.

A quick glance into the main room shows the other Jon is asleep on the sofa, under several blankets. They appear dead to the world. He can't actually see their face, which is... probably for the best. Seeing them asleep is weird enough, and he doesn't feel particularly eager for the undoubtedly weirder experience of seeing his own sleeping face.

This is the first night he's stayed in his own flat since he offered it to them. They all slept over at Tim's on Thursday, and then Martin hadn't wanted to return to the archives just for the night so Tim had bullied them into staying over Friday night as well. Having his double here is odd, especially since he gets nauseous every time they get within three feet of each other, but he thinks he could get used to having a roommate again.

Although, apparently they don't need to sleep. But they can "now, and its wonderful," implying they... couldn't? And they don't need to eat, but they like to, as it "makes them feel more human." This, of course, does nothing but unsettle Jon and remind him that his guest is very far from human indeed. Despite how unsettlingly _domestic_ they had looked in boxers and a baggy t-shirt as they said goodnight.

He wonders if they need to breathe either, since he can't really tell if they are or not from here, then chases the thought away because _he doesn't want to know, actually,_ and goes to have a quick shower and brush his teeth.

He'll have to talk with Georgie today. As a part of the follow-up for Melanie's statement. But the thought of messaging her after so long leaves a heavy feeling in his gut. Maybe he should get one of the others to do it instead. Professionalism and all that.

He does miss her though. They'd remained friends after the breakup, but once the band dissolved and Tessa disappeared, he'd eventually stopped talking to the other members, Georgie included. He is... not great at initiating social interaction.

Jon lets his hair air dry as he slowly works through a bagel and a mug of tea, then pads back to his room to get dressed. The sun is starting to come up, and there's some faint light spilling from the window, but he still manages to almost trip over a cardboard box on his way across the flat. The contents catch his eye, and he carefully lifts out a long, soft skirt. He doesn't know fabrics, but it's something lightweight with a few layers, and a deep blue colour, as far as he can tell in the light.

He's suddenly overcome with an incredibly strong urge to try it on. It's been years since he wore a skirt, and seeing his double walk around in them has made him curious if he can pull them off as well as them.

And, well, they're asleep, and it'll only be for a minute.

He brings the skirt into his room, and slides it up over his hips, reflexively tucking his sleep shirt into the waistband as he does so. He looks up at the mirror, and—

_Oh._

He doesn't... _like_ his body. Mostly tries not to think about it. A glance in the mirror to be sure his tie is straight, his clothes unwrinkled, his hair pulled neatly back, and that is all. He's too sharp and bony, too tall, his posture ruined by years of trying to seem smaller. His eyes are tired and he's by no means conventionally attractive, though that part is something he's rather become grateful for. Most days he'd rather people not pay him any attention.

This is... different. He _likes_ how this looks on him, in the soft light of the approaching sunrise, dark curls spilling around his face and hiding his features in shadow. He shifts his hips, and the skirt twists satisfyingly around his ankles, his gaze getting caught up in the motion of it. He rubs his fingers along the fabric, playing with the texture, and gives it another swish. Something sparks up at that, and a small smile creeps across his lips. There's something _right_ about this.

Two light knocks sound across the room, causing Jon to jump and flinch backwards. He can feel his face burning as he looks over to see the other Jon standing in the open doorway, their burned hand still raised against the doorframe.

"You left the door open," they offer, smiling gently.

"I, ah... didn't realise you were awake."

They shrug, pushing the door the rest of the way open and stepping inside. "Nightmares. Same as you."

"I... see."

He doesn't ask how they know. Either they Knew or they know him well enough to guess.

"Like it?" They ask, nodding at the skirt.

"I-I, well, I just... thought I'd ah... It's been a while since I've worn one, sorry for just taking it—"

They wave off his protests.

"It's fine. Feel free. I've got a nice jumper that goes with that, if you're interested."

"Oh. Um, no, thank you, I'm just... Just thought I'd try it on."

"Alright. So. Do you like it?"

"I..."

He catches another glimpse of himself in the mirror, and that little spark of warmth returns.

"... Yes."

They nod, still smiling.

"It's nice to feel good in your own skin."

"I wouldn't know," he comments wryly.

They raise an eyebrow, and very pointedly give him a once-over. Jon crosses his arms and scowls.

"Fine, alright, this is... good."

It feels silly to say it out loud. It's a _skirt._ It's not a big deal. But one article of clothing and he's suddenly much more comfortable with his appearance than he has been in _years._ Maybe ever.

That smug knowing look from his double is _not helping_ either.

Jon sighs. Later. He can... figure that out later.

"Right, I'm getting changed for work, get out."

"You're going to the Archives?"

"Yes?"

"It's Sunday."

"And? I have keys."

"... You really need a better work life balance."

"Nothing wrong with working some overtime," he mutters.

" _Some_ overtime?"

"Well what do you do all day?" he snaps back.

"... Things."

"Things."

"Yes, things."

"Right. Well I'm still getting changed, so get out."

"Nothing there I haven't seen before."

Jon throws a pillow at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, peppering in the fuck word wherever I damn well please: rip to rusty quill but I can swear
> 
> next chapter: Prentiss time baybe!


	7. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Web says hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all fuckin love skirt Jon, huh (honestly, same). Jon's gotten used to it so he doesn't comment but it's important to me that you know 90% of the time Eldritch Jon is, in fact, wearing skirts.
> 
> Long chapter! Lots of things happening! So you know how up until now everything has been relatively chill besides Eldritch Jon being cryptic and a little glitchy?
> 
> Yeah. This is where things start to get rough.
> 
> CW for unreality, retching, graphic descriptions of worms and worm related injuries/trauma, choking

Despite the revelation that their job is a front for a fear temple, surprisingly little has changed. They all show up to the archives and continue working, if at a far more relaxed pace. They're better able to draw connections between avatars and entities and other recurring figures now, and Jon no longer tears apart the genuine statements. They don't follow up on the false ones any more, and it's lightened the workload considerably. They're working on a more detailed indexing system and database, and Sasha is digitizing those. Jon puts in an order for some new shelves.

Jon, at least, is mostly enjoying himself; he actually likes cleaning and organizing, or rather, likes the idea of the archives being organized and is perfectly content to spend hundreds of hours doing so, much to the astonishment of the others. Martin, too, says he likes the monotony of filing, so he and Jon will often spend hours together in document storage while Martin listens to music or a podcast through his earbuds. Tim's attendance has become spotty, though he always seems to be working on something, and if he's not in the archives he's usually in the library.

Tim and Sasha have also gotten into the institute's twitter account, somehow, and have started regularly hijacking it to post memes. Jon is, officially, unaware of this.

Elias had come down once, and after being met with the hostile mood of the archival staff, seems to have decided to keep his distance. He'd apologized though, implying he'd also been thrown into everything without being told what was going on, and offered to support Jon through the rest of his "transition," if he wanted. Jon is still thinking about it. He doesn't _really_ know if he can trust Elias any more, but he also doesn't have the full story, and he's starting to wonder if he ever will.

Jon lets out a long sigh, and lifts his head from his hands, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. He's exhausted, the now-familiar lethargy of recording statements weighing heavy on his shoulders, along with the continued stress of Prentiss, but he just has to keep going until tomorrow. They're dealing with Prentiss tomorrow, and then he can go home and get a decent sleep for once. Hopefully. Nightmares of foggy graves and dark hospitals and fragments from recorded statements notwithstanding.

... Alright, and maybe recording two statements today hadn't been the best idea.

A light tapping sounds from the door, still closed, and he quickly shuffles the statement he's just finished back into its folder.

"Come in."

To his surprise, it's the other Jon that enters; they've stopped coming by the institute since they moved in, at least during working hours. Statements still go missing occasionally, so he figures they're sneaking in at some point.

Hm, he didn't accidentally stay past closing again, did he?

They smile in greeting, and slip inside, closing the door behind them. The edges of them flicker slightly, and Jon has to look away as his head starts pulsing along with it.

"You look like hell," they comment.

"Thank you," Jon deadpans, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "Bad leg day. I'm going to lie down, I just... need a minute."

"Also, you left this at the flat."

They hold up Jon's cane, crossing the room to prop it against his desk. He takes it with no small amount of relief, just holding it. At one point he'd thought it was lying around the archives somewhere, but couldn't find it.

... When was the last time he went home?

"How did you... right, never mind. Ah... thank you." He pauses. "What about you? You don't look much better."

Their hair is down, which is unusual, and even with the sunglasses that never quite hide their eyes, there is a weariness to their expression that suggests more than a lack of sleep. They're teasing at the fringe of their scarf, rubbing the black yarn between the scarred fingers of their right hand, something Jon often catches himself doing when nervous or trying to ground himself.

"Spent three hours not existing. Good times."

"What."

"It's fine. I, ah, had a nap. Feeling much better now. So, uh, fire system's all set then?"

Jon accepts the blatantly obvious topic change with only a slight scowl.

"Yes, and it only took four months of badgering Elias," he responds. "I don't understand it. He knows about Prentiss, and he knows we know about the fears."

"And I really do wish you'd left me out of that conversation—"

"I said I was sorry."

"—but it's not a big deal, and I'm still a blind spot for him. I can work with that."

"You still haven't explained that."

"It's compli—"

"—complicated, yes, alright, I get it. What isn't."

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, then takes off his glasses and folds them away.

"Why _are_ you here?" He asks. "You can't use the tunnels, why risk it?"

"Cane, mostly," they shrug. "Also, you haven't been home in almost a week. I brought food. There's curry, and that spinach risotto thing. They're in the fridge. Please eat them."

_A week?_

"I, ah... I've been, busy... haven't been sleeping well," he mutters, traces of fog and darkness and skin flickering across his mind.

"Jon."

"Mm?"

"How many statements have you recorded recently?"

"Um. Two... today..."

" _Jon—_ "

"I know," he snaps. "I know, I just... I started a tape, I wanted to use it."

"You started... What happened?"

"We got um, a delivery. A table. I think it's the one from statement 0070107, the description matches."

The other Jon goes very still, and takes a deep breath.

" _Fuck,_ " they whisper. "They shouldn't—it's only the beginning of the month."

"What?"

"That table, it's... supposed to be somewhere else for three more weeks. They moved it early. They shouldn't have, unless..." they mutter, beginning to pace across the floor. "Old paths... a muscle spasming on reflex— Oh God what have I done?"

Jon, however, has stopped hearing what his double is mumbling about, as he spies a nasty looking spider creeping along the front of his upper desk drawer. Grabbing the statement file he recorded earlier, he lines it up carefully, and takes a swing—

—as the folder is pulled from his hand.

"What are you _doing?_ " The other Jon asks, setting the folder back down on the desk.

"There's a spider on—"

"Do _not_ attack spiders in here. Get one of the others to take them outside, or just... ignore them, if you can."

"I'm not particularly a fan of letting spiders roam over my workspace."

"Believe me, I don't like spiders any more than you do. But the Web likes to use arachnophobia to manipulate people, and you can't let it. It was on the drawer?"

"Yes."

"What's in there?"

"Just... pens. Paper. Staples... oh."

As he opens the drawer, Jon's eyes land on a yellow envelope. He pulls it out with a small frown, and remembers Martin saying it had come with the table.

"I'd forgotten about this," he admits, opening the envelope and sliding its contents onto the desk. Out falls a matching pair of lighters with a simple spiderweb design etched on the front.

A short huff of laughter comes from beside him, and Jon looks up to see a wry smile creeping across the other Jon's face. They shake their head, and _oh,_ that laughter does _not_ feel good. Their hand hovers over the lighters, and they pick one up, turning it around, running a finger across the webbed pattern.

_The Web?_

"It knows... Of course it knows. I'm an idiot."

"Knows what?" The hell kind of message are they getting from _lighters?_

"The Web, it—" They pinch the bridge of their nose, and let out a frustrated sigh. "God I hate the Web. Alright, fine, we'll do it that way. Promise me you'll stick to the plan. Keep everyone away from artifact storage. And when something goes horribly wrong, get as far away from Prentiss as you can."

"What do you mean _when?_ What are you talking about?"

"Really, I should have known better. When have I ever been able to _fix_ anything? I—"

They stop, as if only now noticing what they're saying, and sigh.

"Just... be careful. Don't get yourself killed."

And they turn to leave.

"No," Jon stands, leaning against the desk, wincing as his tired body protests, "No, we are _not_ doing this again. _Tell me what's going on._ "

"What's it matter!?" They ask, spinning back around and throwing their hands up. "Everything's going to hell anyways! Maybe I can deal with it, maybe not. Maybe _everyone's_ going to die horribly! It's the Web! We'll just have to find out, won't we!"

They turn to leave again, and several things happen simultaneously. Jon reaches out to grab at their coat. They take a step to the side. His cane catches at the edge of the rug, and it shifts, and slides out from underneath him. He feels himself pitch forwards, towards the Archivist, who reaches out an arm to catch him seemingly by instinct. There is a brief moment where the air feels solid and thick like static; there is a brief moment where Jon realises they have never touched. Then his whole body explodes in pain like his skin is trying to turn itself inside out and his nervous system is on fire and torn to shreds and his self is an aching _wrongness_ and everything goes black.

When he opens his eyes, everything _shifts,_ and for the briefest of moments he sees himself, slumped against the desk, and then it's gone and he's left lying against the cold wooden floor of the office, and _everything hurts,_ like he's been pulled apart into shreds of himself and sewn back together with white-hot needles. He is shaking, can't stop shaking, and it feels as though reality has shifted three degrees sideways and he's been left adrift.

It takes him a long moment to realise he is screaming. Rough, ragged cries tear from his throat, and as he slowly regains control over his body, he doubles over and the gasps turn to dry hacking, his self twisting in fresh agonies as he returns to it.

There is movement from the corner of his eye, and he sees his double bracing themself against the shelf by the door, standing on shaky legs, breathing heavily. Their glasses must have slipped off when they fell, because that horrible, void-dark gaze is back in full, and Jon is caught up again in those hypnotic yet _awful_ eyes, and if he didn't know any better he would say they are afraid.

"I'm sorry," they whisper.

They flee, and Jon can only watch as several things start to make a terrible amount of sense.

Flickers of old sci-fi novels pass across his mind and the word _paradox_ seems to stick, and every theory he had forced into dismissal floods his mind as he desperately tries to push them back down. Because physics and reality say that this can't be happening, but since when do the entities adhere to the laws of the universe?

They had said reality doesn't like them, but there could be any number of reasons for that.

They look older, and they have his memories, but who knows what sort of tricks the Stranger can pull with duplicates?

They have knowledge about Prentiss and Michael and things that may or may not happen, but that's just from their Knowing powers, right?

They were talking about _fixing_ things.

They're a monster, that looks like him. That's it. They have to be a monster. Because the other option is that they're an avatar. Which means they were once human. Which means they... _became_ whatever they are now. Which is not something he wants to entertain the possibility of. Because they're _not him._ They _can't_ be. _He_ is him and they are an entirely different... being, something made of his face and his memories and raw Beholding and God knows what other powers.

They're a monster, that looks like him, and has his memories because of it, and _that is all._

He is not that Archivist.

He _can't_ be.

There's no way he can become _that._

Time passes, he can't tell how much, and Sasha comes back to the archives and finds him lying against his desk, shaking still (and they _talked_ about this, when they were all having crises about their jobs and the insanity of the world, he's allowed to need things, to ask for help), and he lets her sit with him while he pretends he hasn't seen a terrifying vision of his own future, and he lets her hold him tight as he comes undone.

Up on the desk, the tape recorder clicks off.

* * *

When the fire alarm goes off, Jon can't help but jump. He scowls, because even knowing it's coming, he's still far too easy to scare and he hates it.

(It catches Martin by surprise as well, and they lock eyes for a moment before looking away and decidedly not commenting on it.)

"Got it," Martin comments, raising his phone slightly. "Three minutes, starting now."

Boiled down to its basics, the plan is very simple. Clear the building, lure Prentiss out, call the ECDC, set off the fire suppression system, get out. Set intervals between each stage, managed by timers on both ends. Tim and Sasha are upstairs, ready to set off the CO2, Jon and Martin are in the archives ready to lure Prentiss out. Their exit route is the tunnels through document storage, Tim and Sasha's is a fire escape on the main floor. Everyone has a respirator with ten minutes of oxygen, extra CO2 canisters, and both groups have a walkie talkie and a tape recorder.

The whole thing should take about ten minutes.

Also, he gets to break a wall, and if he's being entirely honest he's looking forward to that bit. Definitely not the inevitable worms that will come after, but the wall breaking sounds fun.

They've had to push the plan back a day, because after his breakdown (the conclusion of which he is absolutely _not_ thinking about), Sasha had ordered him a rest day in that no-nonsense tone of hers, and she'd roped Martin in, and Jon has recently discovered he can't actually say no to Martin and that's hardly fair.

Less than a minute passes before his walkie talkie flares to life with a burst of static.

 _"Hey, Jon?"_ Sasha's voice emerges from the device. _"There's some sort of commotion upstairs. We're going to have a look."_

"Commotion?"

_"Yeah. Yelling. I think I heard a scream. I've got a bad feeling."_

Jon grimaces. He doesn't like the sound of that.

"Don't take any unnecessary risks."

_"We'll be careful. You can't see it but Tim's giving you a thumbs up. I'll keep you updated. Don't worry, we'll get back to the release before the timer's up."_

"And keep the recorder on."

 _"Roger that, boss!"_ Tim's voice cuts in with a horrible American accent.

"And this is why we didn't give Tim the handheld," Jon mutters, putting the thing back down on the desk.

"He's just trying to lighten the mood," Martin offers.

"Yes, I'm aware."

Jon paces. He's filled with too much nervous energy, buzzing through him and building. He spies the small axe his doppelganger had given him for breaking down the wall, sitting innocently on the desk, and picks it up, turning it around in his hand.

 _"Remarkably easy to acquire,"_ they'd said, like it was some sort of inside joke.

"I don't like this," Martin comments. "It feels... I dunno, inevitable?"

Jon finds himself agreeing, and he doesn't like it one bit.

He sets the axe back on on the desk, and continues pacing.

"Time?" he asks.

"Still a minute left," Martin responds.

Jon frowns. A minute of quiet before he knocks down a wall and all hell breaks loose.

There is another crackle of static from the walkie, and this time when Sasha's voice emerges, it is garbled and filled with static, only fragments making their way through the distortion.

_"Jon there's—... —worms, all—... —sign of—entiss—... —get up—... —fire—"_

"Sasha you're breaking up," he responds frantically, desperately, grabbing the device and holding it so tight his knuckles hurt.

There is no response.

"Shit."

"There's worms?" Martin's voice rises. "Why are they up there? They're supposed to be in the tunnels, oh God they're going to get eaten by worms—"

"Martin."

"Right, right, sorry. We're going to help them, right?"

"I am, you should stay here, you don't have to go through that aga—"

"Jon, I-I am _not_ sitting out while you risk your life to save our friends. We're both going."

Jon stares for a long moment. Martin had spent nine days locked in his flat, assaulted by Prentiss, yet insisted on staying with Jon to act as bait. Shouldn't he be wanting to stay as far away as possible?

He sighs.

"Alright. Let's go."

They bring the extra CO2 canisters from document storage. Jon reluctantly leaves the axe behind: as nice as it would be to have for backup, he needs both hands to operate a fire extinguisher, and it's one more thing to juggle. They pass a couple of other people still evacuating from the fire alarm, and Jon ignores the looks directed at them and their equipment.

"Where d'you suppose they are?" Martin asks, adjusting the bag of fire extinguishers on his shoulder.

"Ah... library, maybe? First floor, I think. Can't be too far up if they could hear it from this floor."

"Right."

They encounter the first of the worms in the eastern corridor; a thick blanket that pools across the floor and creeps up the wall, a couple of meters wide, and thick with the heavy scent of dry rot.

Jon yelps in surprise, and Martin lets loose a blast of CO2, and they turn down a different hallway and start moving quite a bit faster.

"That's probably not a good sign!" Martin remarks.

"Nope!" Jon agrees.

The worms only increase in number. Every other corridor has a few, and some have more, and he _really_ wants to know where all the worms are coming from because his fu— his double had insisted she wouldn't attack for weeks yet. They'd said they had time.

It's at this point Jon's phone starts going off.

He ignores it at first, because there's _worms_ to worry about, until he's struck by the sudden and intense knowledge that something is watching him, very, _very_ intently.

He swears under his breath, because the Archivist calling him can't be a good sign.

He pulls out the phone and barely has he answered the call before his double's voice is coming from the speaker.

 _"I've got the others, release is covered,"_ they say, voice rough, distorted with so much static he can barely make out the words. It sounds like they're running. _"Get outside. Prentiss is to your left. Run."_

They end the call, and Jon swears again, grabbing Martin by the wrist.

"Come on!"

He starts running, pulling Martin along, and takes a hard right. He mentally runs through the floor plan, trying to think of where the nearest exit is, which corridors they've already seen blocked off by worms, and they just need to _keep moving._

They run into another hall full of worms, and Martin swears and lets out another blast of CO2 as they turn back, and suddenly there's worms behind them as well, and Jon feels his stomach drop through his knees as he realises they're surrounded.

" _Aaaarchiiivissstt..._ "

The raspy voice cuts above the squelching sound of the worms, and Jane Prentiss comes into view, a tidal wave of worms accompanying her.

Jon and Martin exchange glances, put on their respirators, and start spraying the worms as they advance. The Archivist had said someone was getting the release, so they just have to hold out until it's set off.

They stand back to back, and keep spraying, filling the corridor with CO2 as wave after wave of worms advance. The canisters don't last long, and soon Jon is down to one, and Martin is down to two, and he can't see Prentiss any more through the gas in the air, but the worms still advance.

He cries out as a sharp pain sparks in his leg, and turns the nozzle to spray at the wriggling thing crawling into his flesh. It shrivels under the blast, but in the slight lull there is another surge of worms and suddenly they are far closer, the writhing masses swarming up the walls as he desperately arcs the gas around in an effort to push them back, but they're coming from every direction now and pain is shooting up his legs as more burrow in, he falls to his knees and hears panicked shouting from behind, Martin is screaming and he is screaming and there's worms all over his legs, his arms, and they fly at his face and he can _taste_ them, musty and rotten and _squirming_ through his skin in his flesh down his _throat_ the waves of pain rolling over him as he chokes and screams and finally, _finally_ blacks out.

* * *

Jon gets released from the hospital after two days. Whenever he moves, sharp pain shoots through every one of his nerves, and his throat feels like it's on fire, and his skin feels tight and _wrong,_ and he keeps forgetting the bandages are there and starts idly picking at them, but he is alive. Somehow.

He knows if the suppression system had gone off seconds later, he and Martin would both be dead. He's trying very hard not to think about it. The ghostly sensation of worms _squirming_ through his soft tissues is not helping things.

He's home for three days, and already gone stir crazy, when Sasha and Tim decide to visit. They inform him of this about fifteen minutes before they arrive. He wants to be mad about it, but he's still far too relieved that they're alive, that they're okay.

They show up with Thai food and far too many portions of frozen home-made soup, which Sasha meticulously piles into his freezer while updating him on Martin. He's staying at Sasha's, and doing well enough, all things considered. Like Jon, he's been ordered to two weeks rest, and is spending most of his time sleeping or watching the Office, and Jon feels a soft pool of warmth at the knowledge that Martin is safe, he's going to be alright, they're all safe and Prentiss is gone.

After they finish lunch, Jon's fingers drift to the tape recorder on the table. He doesn't remember bringing one home, but he may have just forgotten.

"Can I listen to the tape?" he asks.

Sasha looks over at Tim. His face is... unreadable, and Jon wonders how long Tim has been _looking_ at him like that.

"Sorry, I ah... lost it."

"... What do you mean lost it?"

Tim shrugs.

"Dropped the recorder once or twice. Must have lost it somewhere near artifact storage. Sorry."

Jon fidgets with the tape recorder, and slumps a little in disappointment. The original recording would have been preferable, but...

"Would you be willing to give statements about what happened?"

"Of course," Sasha replies immediately. "I was going to anyways, it was... properly weird."

"Tim?"

"Sure," he responds, and there's some sort of tension between them, and Jon wonders if he's done something wrong, because Tim is acting... odd. Also, there's a nagging feeling that he's forgetting about something important.

"Are you... alright?" He asks, carefully.

"I'm fine," Tim cracks a small smile. "Just haven't been sleeping well, I suppose."

"Right, I, ah... right." He can't blame him for that, they'd all gotten far closer to Prentiss than they had planned. He's honestly amazed Prentiss hasn't joined his own collection of nightmares. Small victories. "Well. Let's get this over with. Sasha, did you want to go first?"

"Yes, if that's alright."

"Tim?"

"Fine by me."

"Very well. Statement of Sasha James, regarding events at the Magnus Institute on the eighth of July, 2016. Recorded thirteenth of July, 2016, direct from subject. Statement begins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: what went down in the rest of the institute!


	8. The Secrets We Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha, Tim, and Jon make their statements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rolls in with a chai latte* What's up nerds I am in fact not dead. Apologies for the long wait. It's statement time baybe! Some answers, some questions... so much dialogue...
> 
> Also I stg every time I write a chapter two more get added to the total count :/ _It's fine._ The chapters might continue to be on the longer side from here on out, as there's still a bit to work through and I really dont want to keep upping the chapter count.
> 
> CW for graphic descriptions of worms, descriptions of worm injuries, spiral flavoured unreality, vomiting, use of compulsion

"Everything started off according to plan. Tim and I pulled the fire alarm, people started evacuating, and we crossed the main foyer to head towards the boiler room. As we did though, I heard what sounded like yelling, possibly some screaming, coming from upstairs. We figured we had time, so we headed up to see what was going on. And as we went up the stairs, I was hit with that _smell._ I recognised it immediately from when I saw Timothy Hodge; thick and cloying rot, sweet and dry.

"The first of the worms were about two thirds up the stairs. I was surprised, but only a little; we've been seeing them around the institute for a while now. We retreated a few steps, to get our extinguishers out, and quickly sprayed them. They shrivelled and died with little fanfare, and that was when I heard the other screams.

"Emerging onto the first floor, I almost didn't recognise it at first. The floor was shifting, _crawling_ with the worms, the movement nauseating, and that _smell_ was overpowering. I saw a couple of the library staff, backed into corners, swinging at the shifting masses with whatever they had at hand, some stomping the worms into the floor, trying to run away from them but getting caught and tripping, only to then be swarmed. No sign of Prentiss herself though. That was when I called you on the walkie talkie; I figured if both us and the worms were already up here, we could do distraction while you got the release. Then we dove in.

"We did a quick sweep of the floor; told people to grab fire extinguishers, gave away a few of ours. Almost everyone had evacuated at that point, but there were a few people left that got caught in the offices or cornered by the worms. There were... a couple of people didn't make it. We got there too late.

"One of my extinguishers ran out just as a _surge_ of worms appeared, and I had to back into one of the offices so I could get out another one. But, when the door closed in front of me, I realised it wasn't the brown door of the library offices, but a yellowish door I've never seen before. The moment it shut, the sound of the worms and the screaming disappeared, and everything was eerily quiet.

"I turned around, and found myself in a long, bright hallway, full of doors and mirrors and paintings of mirrors showing more doors, everything curving ever so slightly to the right. I tried to open the door I came from but it was gone, replaced with more of that long, curving hallway... So, I started walking. It was impossible to tell which doors were real, which were projections or reflections, and more than once I found my hand passing through empty air or brushing against something that didn't quite feel like a wall should.

"Eventually I found a real door. It opened to pitch darkness, so I turned on the torch on my phone, and I found myself in another corridor, but this time made of solid stone. And stood not ten feet in front of me, was Michael."

"Michael?" Jon interrupts. "The— From the cafe? With the hands?"

"Yeah. It was... weird; it told me that I "shouldn't let the Archivist send me into danger like that." I told it that it was our idea, not yours, and it _laughed,_ and then just sort of... looked at me? Like there was some inside joke I didn't understand. Then just like that, it was gone, along with the door I had come from."

"Do you think that's..."

"The Distortion corridors? I think so. It was certainly... weird enough. It's just that... I got out, so easily. I think Michael was trying to help."

"That is... certainly something to think about. Apologies. Continue."

Sasha nods, her dark curls bouncing slightly.

"I started exploring. What else could I do? I didn't have any way back into the institute, what with that door vanishing. On a hunch, I kept a fire extinguisher handy; it didn't take long before I encountered more of Prentiss' worms, and I realised I was in the tunnels under the institute. I'm... trying to not think about the logistics of me ending up down there? It makes my head hurt. There weren't a lot of worms in the tunnels, but they were faster. A lot faster. It might have something to do with the institute itself... since it's a temple of Beholding? Maybe the Corruption is weaker in the institute proper.

"There was one point... I'm not sure if it was just my head still being messed up from the Distortion, but... as I shone my torchlight down the tunnel, I thought I saw a figure, standing in the shadows. The weirdest part is, for a moment, I almost thought it was you. But... taller, maybe? And something about the eyes... I only saw a glimpse of it, and by the time I shone the light back on it, it was gone, and I couldn't find any sign of anything being there at all. So, probably just the tunnels and my mind playing tricks on me. Those doors...

"Anyways. I wandered down there for a while, trying to count turns and remember where I'd come from in hopes that I could somehow find my way back, but I ended up getting hopelessly lost. It's a proper maze down there. And then there was that scream... let's just say I could hear it plenty clearly from the tunnels. I started finding dead worms instead of live ones, more confirmation that Prentiss was dead, so, at least that was some relief.

"I usually have a remarkable sense of time, but I couldn't tell you how long I wandered those tunnels. It's not even that they were all the same: the stone and brick and earth were different throughout. It's just that, none of it felt quite... real, enough, for time to matter, and it didn't stick. Eventually I came across another door, cracked open slightly. I shone my light in, and it didn't look like that eerie hallway again, so, I pushed it open.

"The room was small and dark, and there were a number of cardboard boxes, stacked neatly against the left wall, and a wooden chair sat near the back. Everything was clean and neat, despite the gloomy atmosphere. There wasn't a cobweb or speck of dust in sight. It had an... eerie stillness to it, like a library that didn't want you to read the books. A little bit like the archives, actually, when you're in there alone, deep in the shelves.

"I went over to the boxes and, opening one, I discovered it was full of cassette tapes. There were hundreds of them. Most of the labels looked like statement case numbers, or reference names, and from what I could tell, it was Gertrude's handwriting."

"S-sorry," Jon interrupts, "Are you saying... Gertrude recorded statements? And you found them stashed away in the tunnels?"

"Apparently. It does explain the tape recorder in storage. I've no idea why they were in the tunnels though. Maybe she was hiding them from something? Either way. The room was properly creepy, and I didn't really want to spend more time in there than I had to, so I grabbed a random handful of tapes and left. I thought they might... I don't know, give us some insight into what happened to Gertrude. But they're just... statements. And _you're_ not getting at them until you're off sick leave."

"What!? That's not fair!"

"You're supposed to be resting," Sasha teases. "No work-related activities allowed."

Jon glances over at Tim, hoping for assistance, but is met with only a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk.

"... You've both listened to them, haven't you," Jon sighs.

"Maybe so," Tim replies.

"... Fine, alright." He can always sneak back to the institute when he's healed a little more. Explore the tunnels, find the room on his own, grab a few for himself. "What happened after you left?"

"Not a lot, really. I wandered back through the tunnels, and by some miracle managed to find my way out. Met up with the ECDC people and Tim outside, got checked over, and went home after a couple of hours. I had a couple of worms in my leg at one point but I got those out with the corkscrew. Got the email about the institute closure the next day. Martin's been staying with me, but we've already gone over that... I think that's everything."

"Right then. Thank you." Jon clicks off the recorder. It sits heavy in his hands, and though he knows the tape doesn't literally weigh more for being recorded, it certainly does feel that way.

There is... a lot to unpack there. Michael showing up is a surprise, and possibly cause for concern, as they still don't know what he wants. There is every chance that he saved Sasha's life, or wants them to think he did. He's not quite so willing to trust something called _It Is Lies._ The tapes are interesting, something that adds another layer of mystery to the old archivist. He hardly knows anything about her. Did she know what she'd gotten herself into? How deep did her own connection to the Eye run? What happened to her?

He taps the recorder a few times with the pads of his fingers, and resolves to think about it later. He has ample time to fill.

"Tim?" Jon asks, looking up and realising his friend isn't in the room.

"Yeah?" Tim's voice comes from the kitchen, and he emerges carrying a glass of water, which he promptly passes over to a grateful-looking Sasha.

"Are you, ah, ready to make your statement?"

Tim pauses, gaze lingering on the recorder.

"I... I'll tell you what happened, but maybe I don't want to feed my trauma to the spooky fear god?"

Jon's eye twitches at the word _spooky,_ but he doesn't comment.

"I... right. Of course. Can I just... record it for me, then? I-I'd like... a record."

Tim raises an eyebrow, before letting out a weary sigh.

"... Fine, alright. Did you want me to start at the beginning, or..."

"Just from where you and Sasha got separated."

"Right." Tim props himself against the armchair. Sasha gives him a light poke, and he swats her hand away. He takes a breath, and begins.

"We'd moved through the library a bit by that point; there weren't as many worms as it had first appeared, but they seemed to come in waves. My hearing aids started going a bit funky when we got upstairs, like you said they might, so I wasn't as coordinated as I'd have liked. Sasha headed towards the offices, and another wave came, and by the time I got my bearings I couldn't see her anywhere. I... I thought she might have... Yeah. I decided to head back down to get the suppression system off; we weren't sure if you'd gotten Sasha's message, and if the worms were already up and... occupied, we needed to set that off.

"There were too many worms between where I was and where we'd come up, so I cut towards the back hallway by the fire escape, the one that comes down near artifact storage? Figured I could get down there. Dodged another wave, blasted a few worms, didn't have that many cans of gas left so I tried to use it sparingly. Managed to make it to the stairs with only a few worms in my arm, quickly took care of those with more CO2.

"I ran into Elias in the stairwell. He took one look at the extinguisher in my hands and the recorder in my pocket and asked if this was some hair-brained scheme of yours. Told him it was a group effort, and that he was welcome to help if he heard of any more spooky shit that planned to attack us. Mentioned where I was heading and asked if his spooky shit could help us avoid the worms. He said it didn't quite work like that. Useless prick. I headed down the stairs and did my best to ignore him. He turned down a different hallway at some point... and I soon found my way blocked by another tide of worms. Think they came from the main stairwell. Best I can tell they were spreading throughout the institute, but mostly downwards.

"I had to retreat to artifact storage. I think Elias wound up on the right side of the worms, figured he'd head towards the gas release. He knew the plan, and it did go off in the end, so I guess he's useful for something. I... don't really want to think about what would have happened otherwise."

"No..." Jon agrees quietly. "Neither do I."

Tim looks like he's going to say something, then shakes his head, and his eyes land on the bandages covering Jon's arms.

"Yeah... you were right in the middle of it, weren't you..."

Tim shakes his head again, as if dismissing a thought.

"Anyways. Not much else. I... I hid in artifact storage for a while. Left just after the CO2 went off. Saw the ECDC people outside... We're pretty sure Elias called them. I made a stupid joke about itching and got quarantined for several hours. Not my wisest moment. God that dragged on forever. When Sasha came out later... I don't think I've been so relieved to see someone in my life."

"Tim..." Sasha shifts in the armchair, reaching out to take Tim's hand. She rubs her thumb along his knuckles, brushing over a pale patch of skin, and Jon suddenly feels like he's witnessing something not meant for him.

"I... yeah. Everyone's alright. Everyone made it out."

He glances over to Jon again, a relieved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jon clears his throat.

"And ah... and the tape?"

"Yeah, I... like I said, must've lost the recorder at some point. I was a little occupied with the worms."

"Right... Hopefully one of the cleaning crews will find it, but I'm not particularly optimistic. Besides, I'd rather have you over the tape. I'm just... glad everyone made it out alright. Relatively speaking."

"Yeah that's been bothering me," Tim muses. "How is it that Prentiss and the worms wind up in the institute literal minutes before you were set to lure them out? That can't be a coincidence."

"Yes... You're right, it feels... Before you went upstairs, just after you set off the alarm, Martin mentioned feeling this sense of... apprehension. Like something was meant to go wrong."

"Yeah," Sasha says, "Martin played us the tape. Oh, actually, I brought it. Here. We figured you'd want to hold onto it, seeing as you're the one who insisted on us recording everything."

"Couldn't have brought Gertrude's as well?" Jon mutters, but gratefully takes the tape, running his fingers along the textured edge.

Sasha just grins in return.

"So, what," she continues, "We're thinking something planned this? Sounds an awful lot like the Web."

"I-I don't know," Jon responds. "Maybe? Why though? What does us getting attacked by Prentiss have to do with whatever grand plan the Web has going on?"

"No idea. But we can't rule it out."

"No. We can't."

Sasha steers the conversation away from the institute after that, by coaxing Jon into telling her all about his newest read (which by his judgment has far too much pseudo-magic for what claims to be a hard sci-fi novel, but he likes the story well enough), and also offers to bring over a few of her own novels if he needs more reading material. He doesn't, but he appreciates the offer.

Shortly after they leave, a little over an hour later, Jon rewinds the tape and plays Sasha's statement again. Something had stuck out, and he hadn't thought on it at the time, but there was _something_ that caught his attention and he just needs to—

_"... I thought I saw a figure, standing in the shadows. The weirdest part is, for a moment, I almost thought it was you. But... taller, maybe? And something about the eyes..."_

_Click._

He'd forgotten about them again. His... his double. The last he'd heard of them was during the attack, and nothing since, and he'd forgotten again, not noticed their absence.

 _"I've got the others,"_ they'd said. Were they watching over Sasha in the tunnels? They must have left at some point; it had sounded like they were running, and there was no signal in the tunnels themselves. What were they running to? The gas release? Tim? Prentiss?

_Why does he keep forgetting them?_

There's something to this, there has to be. Between their disappearances and the memory lapses and the _glitching,_ they have to mean _something._

The memory of touching them stirs a spike of nausea in his gut, and then his worm injuries are itching again and he can _feel_ them in his flesh, crawling under his skin, _squirming_ down his throat—

He hobbles to the bathroom as quick as his still-healing legs will allow, his usual cane replaced with a pair of aluminum crutches, pushing through the sharp pains and pulls of the tattered skin under the bandages. He barely makes it to the toilet before he's retching again, trying to chase out the _taste_ of corruption. When he's too weak to continue, he just sits on the floor until he stops shaking, picking at the edge of one of the square bandages on his left hand. It helps to focus, something tactile to ground his mind that seems determined to spiral away.

Eventually he hauls himself to his feet, leaning on the counter for support, and finds himself staring into the mirror. He looks like hell. Hair framing his face in curly black strands, and there's definitely visible greying now. His eyes are sunken and his cheeks are hollowed, at least what he can see of them through the gauze and plasters covering his skin. His beard could stand to be trimmed, though he'd still shaved upon waking; it's a comforting routine, and he has no desire to get his facial hair caught on the sticky side of a bandage.

He looks more like his double than ever.

There's a bandage just covering the spot where his double's jagged throat scar would sit, and in a moment of panic Jon rips it off, half expecting to see that pale ragged line etched into his own skin. It hangs from his neck by a single corner, revealing only the raw pockmarks of his worm injuries. One of them has started bleeding again.

He sighs, and re-dresses the injury. He isn't _literally_ turning into his double, he knows this, he's just—

_He could._

Jon shakes his head, gripping the edge of the sink tight. He's not an idiot, he's _not,_ it's just that time travel can't be real. Even more than any of the supernatural bullshit they've dealt with, the logistics of it just _don't work._

... Or is that what they meant by "not stable?"

Jon takes another shaking breath, and washes his hands for the third time that day, in another futile attempt to chase away the lingering sensation of _filth._ He refuses to look in the mirror again.

* * *

Come evening, there is the rattle of a key in a lock.

Jon is on his feet instantly, and immediately regrets it, collapsing against the coffee table as his left leg gives out, the old injury made worse with the new damage. He swears under his breath, and drags himself upright again with the aid of a crutch, trails of fire running up both his legs and his left side. He takes a few tentative steps to the middle of the room, unsure whether he plans to flee to the bedroom or face a potential intruder head on, and promptly remembers that the only other person who currently has a key to his flat is his future self.

The door opens, and the other Jon enters, quickly closing it behind them.

Immediately, Jon is on edge again. There is something different to them, something _wrong._ He can't seem to focus on their form, his gaze sliding off, something prickling like static and needles in his mind. Their eyes, however, are outlined in sharp clarity as they bore into him. Intense, far more than normal. Painful. Ragged. _Hungry._

Jon stumbles backwards, head reeling, legs catching against something behind him and he collapses into his armchair, pinned in place as the Archivist's gaze strips his self bare and devours him. Their eyes are wide and deep and he is falling into the endless depths of void-not-black as he is _Known._

_"Tell me what happened."_

He barely has a chance to breathe before the words are pulled from his throat, smooth as silk, paced and regular as though he were reading a bit of prose instead of recounting his trauma.

He wants to stop. He wants to _stop._ But the words keep pouring out of him, describing the whole encounter with intense, vivid detail. He can _feel_ the Eye now, can feel it pressing against him and pulling him apart and drawing out his words and his _fear, so much fear,_ rolling over him in waves as every sensation of wrongness and rot and pain that he'd gone through returns with utter clarity. It _hurts_ and it's _horrible_ and it's _wrong,_ and there is a small, small part of him that feels _good_ about it, and he hates that part most of all.

When he finally falls silent, Jon is shaking, and every part of him is once again racked with pain. His double takes a step back, still looming over him, and it hits him that they'd been wearing their sunglasses the whole time. It hadn't stopped him from seeing their eyes in complete and utter clarity.

His stomach turns at the wrongness of it all. Is that what it feels like when _he_ takes a statement? Reliving all the fear and the pain, the words dragged from unwilling lips as Beholding relishes every moment?

_That can't be me. They— it can't, I can't—_

"Thank you. I... I'm sorry," they murmur, _finally_ looking away. "I, um... Sometimes the written ones aren't enough."

A chill grips Jon by the throat. His double feeds on fear. He knows this. But now he knows what... _who_ they are, and oh, that makes it far, far worse.

"You, um... should be safe from the dreams, at least," they continue.

The dreams?

Jon stops breathing.

_The dreams._

Naomi Herne's misty graveyard flashes before his eyes, cold and empty and Naomi herself watching him back with fear that always seemed seemed too sharp for a dream, and Melanie King's hospital, full of people he's never met and their unnatural dances and Melanie's confusion at his presence because _he's not supposed to be there, is he._

"... Jon?"

"T-the dreams," he stammers out. " _What_ about the dreams?"

His double's brow furrows for a moment, then shifts to an expression of horror.

" _Oh..._ "

"The statement givers," Jon whispers with dawning realisation. "They get... it's their dreams, isn't it. I... _I'm_ in _their_ nightmares."

Their silence is all he needs for an answer.

"You _knew,_ " he accuses, "Why didn't you _tell me?_ "

"You— You would have stopped taking them. You need them to properly become—"

"Not at the cost of _hurting people._ They're dreaming that _every night._ And I... it's because of _me._ "

_I'm turning into a monster._

"I—I know," they murmur, hands twisting together in some approximation of guilt which Jon _does not_ feel bad about in the slightest. "It... It wasn't my decision to make for you... I'm sorry."

"No, it wasn't," he snaps, but his voice carries no weight to it, the air stolen from his lungs. He hurts, and he's so, so tired, and for once, _just_ for once, he'd like to actually properly understand what he's getting into, what's happening to him and because of him, and he's _so done_ with having his choices ripped away by his fucking _monstrous future self._

"Get out."

To the Archivist's credit, they leave without another word, and Jon is left in the silence of the flat with only his anger, his pain, and his fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought things were going to get resolved this chapter? Yeah me too. Ah well. *pokes the Jons* Communicate!! U fools!!
> 
> Gonna link my [tma tumblr](https://falling-forever-upwards.tumblr.com/post/628839446937288706/time-travel-au-time-travel-au-season-5-jon-has) again because I did some doodles for this fic (significantly more lighthearted than this chapter) and I'll probably do more in the future. Once again, feel free to just drop by and say hi!
> 
> I have some Lore planned for next chapter (finally), so here's to hoping 181 doesn't like. massively fuck with what I have planned lol. I'm very excited though.
> 
> Next chapter: Some healing, and Jon returns to work.
> 
> Update: as of now (December) this fic is going on a temporary hiatus. I'm going to finish the next few chapters before I start posting again, so it may be a good month or two, or possibly longer. I'd also like to do some edits throughout the fic (nothing plot related, just some extra character headcanons and touch-ups), which I'll publish and detail when I next update. Thank you all for your patience, and I hope to see you all soon <3


	9. That Which Lingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rest, recovery, and reflections. And of course, a tape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey, welcome back!! It has been A Time but we are back up and posting again! (And screaming about the rapidly approaching finale but that's a whole other thing)
> 
> Update wise, I did a proper tag overhaul (last time, I promise), and some minor edits throughout the fic (nothing plot relevant). Do you know how hard it is to find the platonic s1 archives crew relationship tag? Ridiculous. Also I love that there's enough time travel fics that Jon & Jon is a proper tag now.
> 
> CW: food, minor character death.

Jonathan Sims is what one might call a stubborn man. He would object, because he doesn't like being called a man, and certainly doesn't like others calling him stubborn, regardless of how true it may be, but some people might. Sometimes it's helpful, like when he has to track down a particular volume for a research project. Sometimes it's not, like when he's arguing with idiots on the internet, or tries to leave the flat for groceries and ends up reopening his wounds, or when his future self tears his trauma from his throat and they end up avoiding each other for weeks.

He's fine, thanks for asking.

All this to say, Jon has started stealing his double's skirts, because they left some behind, he's been wanting to for a while, and he's feeling more than a little bit petty. If they can do it, so can he, or so he tries to convince himself.

Around the flat it's easy enough. No one else can see him there. The skirts are comfortable, and easier on his still-healing legs, and they look... good. He still gets that little spark of warmth every time he catches sight of his reflection.

Outside though... He's extremely aware that he will get _looks;_ this isn't some dimly lit uni party where everyone is somewhat drunk and no one has a damn left to give. This is central London, and being a tall brown man covered in half-healed worm wounds means he already stands out in a crowd, and he has no desire to add the novelty of soft skirts to that assessment. It _shouldn't_ matter, though he's long past trying to understand why people get hung up on these things. They just _do._

Except he's... not a man? Not consciously, not really. And his double certainly isn't, not in any sense of the word. So, he can _do_ that. He's... fairly sure about it, about himself, though he's still thinking about what it _means._ What he wants to do with it.

It still feels like something so fragile, so very personal. Something to hold close, to observe, to keep from prying eyes.

He doesn't wear the skirts outside the flat.

The sick leave ends up being extended to a month, then six weeks, as check-ups show his wounds are healing a lot slower than they should. Which... well, doesn't really surprise him, irritating as it is. He'd gotten a stern look and an ask about if he's been picking at them (which, alright, he has, because it's a habit of his and they _itch,_ and even if he hadn't, he has a feeling they'd be healing slowly anyways, supernatural manifestation of rot and all that).

He covers them in gauze and picks at that instead. He washes his hands too often, leaving the skin dry and rough, and when his dreams are his own, he can still feel the squirming of worms in his screaming throat.

Tim or Sasha and sometimes both come and visit, once or twice a week, and the change in pace is enough that he manages not to completely tear his flat apart from the boredom. They make plans for a dinner, four weeks in, and by then Martin is well enough to come as well.

It's the first time he's actually seen Martin since the worm incident, though they have started texting, if only for something else to do. He looks tired, with shadows under his eyes, and the small circular worm scars standing out against his freckled skin. They cluster across the side of his face, reaching down under the collar of his beige jumper. He has a pair of crutches identical to Jon's, though he's only really using one at the moment, and when he looks up at Jon, his eyes brighten. They're a soft shade of blue-grey, Jon realises, not unlike the ocean on an overcast day.

"Hi," he says, unable to stop a small smile creeping across his face at the sight of him.

Martin returns the smile, a scar on his temple shifting as his eyes crinkle with the motion of it.

"Hi."

"H-how are you?"

"Oh, you know," Martin shrugs, then winces slightly at the movement. "Could be better. Good to be up and about again. There is only so much knitting one can do."

"Right, you were working on that, ah... socks, right?"

"Yep. Just finished them yesterday, actually. Bit wobbly, but not bad for being way out of practice."

"They're perfectly lovely," Sasha cuts in, "he's just being harsh."

Martin flushes slightly. Jon blinks, clears his throat, and remembers that he should probably invite his friends inside instead of chatting with Martin in the doorway. Tim's eyes are bright, as though he's about to crack a particularly bad joke, and Sasha too has something of a smirk on her face.

Jon takes a step back, and waves Tim and Sasha towards the kitchen to put down the groceries, while Martin heads for a chair.

Tim gives him a once-over as he passes by.

"That's a good look for you."

Jon looks down, sees soft red knit, and feels his throat seize up as he realises that he's forgotten to change out of his skirt.

His head snaps back up, half formed syllables crowding at his lips and catching in his throat— _just wanted to, didn't think, more comfortable, just a skirt_ —but by then Tim is already part way to the kitchen, and no longer looking in his direction, nodding along to something Sasha is saying.

Jon remembers to breathe then.

It's _fine._ He's fine. It doesn't have to _mean_ anything, sometimes men wear skirts and that's that, and Tim's the sort of person who would understand that, he thinks.

He just doesn't want to have to _explain_ anything when he's barely grasping at understanding himself.

Tim catches his eye, stood in the doorway of the kitchen, and Jon isn't quite sure how long he's been frozen against the wall.

" _Are you okay?_ " Tim signs quickly, out of view of the others. His bubbly demeanor has shifted to one of softer concern.

" _I'm fine,_ " he signs back. Judging by Tim's expression, he doesn't believe it for a second.

" _You look like you're about to keel over._ "

Jon glares at him, and Tim raises his hands in surrender.

" _Alright, sorry. I'm serious though, the skirt looks nice._ " His hands still for a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. " _Red suits you._ "

Jon narrows his eyes.

"Was that a _pun?_ " slips from his lips before he can think to stop it, and Sasha's halo of curls appears in the doorway just behind Tim.

"Was what a pun?"

"Jon doesn't appreciate my brilliant sense of humor," Tim offers as an explanation.

"Well, brilliant might be stretching it a bit," she retorts.

" _Ouch._ "

Tim shoots him another glance, eyebrows raised in a silent question, and... alright, so maybe he'd needed that check-in more than he liked to admit.

" _Thank you,_ " he gestures quickly, then busies his hand by twisting the hem of his shirt in his fingers. He catches the shape of the logo then, and lets a small smile slip. Of course he's wearing an old Mechs shirt as well, faded and worn with years of abuse. He'd _really_ meant to change before they got here, but evidently it had just... slipped his mind.

Tim smiles back, and promptly rolls right back into conversation.

"Y'know, I don't think I've ever seen you wear merch."

"Contrary to popular belief," Jon begins, gesturing to said shirt, "I do have interests outside of work. Such as music."

"Oh, band merch? Are they good? I'm always looking for new music."

Sasha's eyes light up. Jon keeps his face carefully neutral.

(Really, he's always loved to be a little dramatic.)

"I don't think I can be entirely objective on that front," he says. "I'd say we were pretty good though."

It takes Tim about four seconds to parse what he's said, and then his eyes go comically wide.

"Jonathan Sims were you _in a band?_ "

Jon spends the next two hours fielding questions about the band while he directs the group through the prep and cooking of dinner. _Yes, he has pictures, but they can wait until later,_ he says, showing Sasha the spice blend for the chicken, and _no, he is not singing while they do prep,_ he grins while passing off a stack of vegetables and a knife to Martin, and _what do you mean Sasha knew!?_ from a stunned Tim who has somehow managed to get flour all over himself. Then Sasha is grinning as well and soon there is laughter and flour everywhere.

It takes them longer than it should, but by the end, the food is delicious, and even more so for the company.

Jon doesn't cook often. It's not difficult, and he's actually quite good at it, but he doesn't really see the point to it. It's a lot of time and effort that could be spent on other, more important things.

This though... he'd do this again. He doesn't think he could get tired of this.

* * *

By the time he returns to the archives, he no longer needs the crutches, though he does bring the cane. His old leg injury has been acting up since the attack, made worse by the worm damage, and he sighs at the knowledge that the cane is probably going to become something he uses far more regularly from now on. Physical therapy is only doing so much.

He grabs a statement on the way to his office. The motion registers once he's sat at his desk, and he realises that he had neither intended to grab a file, nor checked to be sure it was from one of the boxes of genuine statements they've filtered out. He'd just... reached for it.

Somehow, he knows it's real.

Something tells him that's not a good sign.

He is... still unsure what to do with the knowledge that, eventually, he will be required to feed off fear. It doesn't seem to be something he can stop, and for all he knows, he's already dependant on the statements. The last several weeks have been the longest he's gone without reading one since he's started in the archives, and he'd gotten Sasha's live statement just before that, which apparently is more... _filling,_ than a written one. He's been more tired lately, which he'd chalked up to healing from the attack, or staying away from the institute for too long, but perhaps there's more to it.

_Sometimes the written ones aren't enough._

And there's that. Apparently, eventually, he will _need_ to take live statements, or... starve? Go insane? Lose himself? He doesn't know.

And he _can't._ He knows what that's like, now, what it is to have your fear drawn out for Beholding's consumption, and the consequences thereof, and he _can't_ do that to other people. He thinks of those _eyes,_ that _hunger,_ and shudders, the ghost of that gaze lingering across his skin, the flickers of paranoia that it's _still there._

He grips the desk, grits his teeth, and breathes until his hands stop shaking.

He refuses to become something like that.

(He hates to think of what circumstances would push him into becoming that.)

And he should really tell the others about the whole... avatar thing. The longer he waits, the worse it's going to be. And... he'd really like their support. He'd like to know that he can at least _talk_ to them about it.

He hopes it doesn't push them away instead.

Jon shakes his head, and puts the statement aside, and only then notices a folded piece of paper sitting innocently on his desk. It's lined, something torn from a spiral notebook, the shadow of blue writing just visible through the thin paper. When he picks it up to examine it closer, something falls out with a soft _clack._

A small silver key, looped on a dark hair band.

He frowns, and turns to the note, unfolding it.

 _The tunnels are safe from the Eye,_ it reads, and of course he recognises the handwriting. Of course they know of his and Sasha's plans to explore the tunnels. No such thing as privacy when dealing with an avatar of the god of voyeurism.

Although... that's not entirely fair. Maybe they went exploring as well, and they're just remembering. And if the Eye can't see into the tunnels... could it be an olive branch of sorts? A place he can be guaranteed they, or Elias, won't be watching? Obviously the key is for the trapdoor, which Elias had insisted upon locking after the _police_ had shown up for some reason. They still haven't gotten any definitive answers about that.

If rumors are to be believed, the cleaning crews found human remains.

If rumors are to be believed, they once belonged to Gertrude Robinson.

Jon swallows, and picks up the key. He turns it in his fingers, lingering on the hair band. He's never liked having loose keys, has a tendency to misplace them, and so always finds some lanyard or paperclip or bit of string to hold them until he can get them on a proper ring.

It's these little idiosyncrasies that unnerve him the most, despite everything. Like all these little personal things seem... unreal, or perhaps _too_ real, when coming from his... _other self._

After a moment, he adds the key to his ring, and drops the hair band in his desk drawer (it'll be good to have an extra on hand). If this is their attempt at an apology, they'll have to do a lot more. But, there's no sense in looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Jon busies himself with work then, and manages to keep himself on task until his office door clicks open some time later. Sasha enters with a bounce in her step, a takeaway cup in her hand, and a warm smile across her face.

Jon may be a morning person by habit, but Sasha is a morning person by nature.

"Good morning Sasha."

"Morning. Figured you'd be in early."

"Yes, well. No rest for the wicked, and all that."

"Bit of a different connotation, considering the work environment."

"Mm."

"It'll be good to have you back though. It's been a bit weird, just me and Tim around. The archives feel... too empty."

"Yes, I... understand what you mean."

"Is Martin coming in as well?"

"No, he's taking an extra week to get settled in the new flat."

"Ah, fair. I'll have to drop by with another batch of something. Sweet or savoury do you think?"

"He prefers savoury."

"Perfect. I'll take any excuse to make onion bread. Oh, before I forget."

Sasha starts digging through her purse, pulling out something wrapped in a plastic shopping bag. She walks over to Jon and places it on the desk. It makes a _clacking_ noise when he moves to open it, and inside he finds a half dozen tapes.

"Promised I'd let you have them once you got back to work," she explains.

"Oh, these are Gertrude's tapes, then?"

"Yep. Turns out she liked making dramatic titles for the statements just as much as you do."

"I do not—"

"Jon we have _all_ heard you go on about the Anglerfish."

Jon closes his mouth with a scowl, and flicks through the tapes. The top two are labelled "Alexandria" and "Changeling/Imposter" in small neat cursive, with similarly theatrical and unhelpful labels on four of the others. One tape is unlabeled, and looks to be somewhat newer. He makes a mental note to check that one first, and puts the bag aside for later.

"Thank you."

"Of course. Just a heads up, Tim might ask for the _Changeling_ one back soon, he's been looking into it."

"Noted."

They chat for a few minutes longer, going over the work she and Tim have been doing, and a couple of new statements to start looking into. They drift back to the tunnels eventually, and their plans for exploring them tomorrow, and Sasha is suitably excited when she finds Jon has already acquired the key.

When Sasha does leave, with most of her coffee gone, Jon immediately pulls out a tape recorder and the bag with Gertrude's tapes. He's got the unlabeled tape in his hand and part way to the deck before realising he probably shouldn't listen to all seven in one go, not if he wants to be any sort of coherent tomorrow. Or the rest of the week. Two in one day was bad enough, he can't imagine trying for _seven._

Just the one, then, for now. He can get to them all in time.

When he hits play, the voice that comes out of the recorder is not Gertrude's.

"—yep, it's running."

"Did you just turn it on?"

"The important thing is, it's running."

Jon's hand freezes on the depressed button. That's... Tim and Sasha. Why is there a recording of Tim and Sasha mixed in with Gertrude's tapes?

"Right then," Sasha says. "Here we go."

And the fire alarm starts blaring.

His eyes instinctively flick upwards, though he knows it's only a recording of the alarm and not the actual thing.

That would make this Tim's missing Prentiss tape. But how did it get _here?_

The audio progresses just as Tim and Sasha described in their statements; the screams as they climb up the stairs, the worms waiting for them, the desperate attempts to save the people in the library, Tim's shouting as he loses sight of Sasha, meeting Elias on his way back down to the boiler room. It's worse hearing it live though; the raw agony of the screams, the all too familiar sounds of the worms, the memories rolling over him _again_ as he clenches his fist against his mouth and tries not to be ill. His scars _itch._

He doesn't pause the tape.

"Pompous prick," Tim mutters as he heads away from Elias, and despite himself, Jon can't help a fond little smile.

Then Tim yells in surprise, and the audio cuts off just as the worm noises start to swell. There is a half second's pause as the tape continues to spin, before his voice returns, rougher and quieter, and echoing slightly in an open space.

"Right, there we go. Not sure when this turned off, so. I'm in artifact storage. I know you told us not to go in here, but it was this or the worms. I lost Elias in one of the corridors, there were more worms, a lot of worms. Think he wound up on the right side though, so hopefully he can get to the CO2 release."

Tim's shoes tap quietly against the concrete floor, his footsteps careful and slow.

"Worms are all over the first floor," he continues, "Spreading both up and down, as far as we could tell. If the archives are the goal, someone should tell them they're going the wrong way."

Something metal is gently set on a hard surface, and Jon can make out the sound of fabric rustling as Tim presumably sits down.

"Just gonna wait it out here, I suppose. And don't worry, I'm not sitting on any of the cursed chairs."

Tim is silent for a while, save for an occasional tapping sound or idle hum.

"... It's creepy in here. Don't know where the lights are, so it's just me and my phone, and one fire extinguisher. All the shadows, are... yeah. Don't like it... Least I've got you to keep me company... Christ, don't show this to Martin, I've got a reputation to keep."

Another pause. Then, the faintest prickle of static starts.

"Hang on." Tim's voice is much softer now, whispering directly into the recorder. "Thought it was just the light, but no, there's definitely something moving in here."

There is a quiet rustling sound as Tim stands again, and then footsteps, soft enough as to be barely audible. The tape starts emitting a high, sharp tone, accompanied by the soft crackle of static, rising slowly.

Tim inhales sharply. Then a new distortion warps the sound, and the static swells to a pinpoint.

**_"Stop."_ **

Jon's voice—the _other Jon's_ voice—rings out, the compulsion sharp and pointed and _powerful._

 _"Archivist," something_ responds, the voice clawing at Jon's ears, warped and layered and _wrong,_ a lack of identity laced with sharp disdain.

 _"Changeling,"_ the other Jon returns, and the amount of genuine _hatred_ in their voice catches him completely off guard.

"What the fuck..." Tim breathes.

"Tim, _get behind me,_ " the other Jon commands, a wash of static accompanying the words. The scuff of footsteps shows Tim complying.

"You're not Jon."

"Tim—"

"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing. He's with Martin— **_Don't. Move._** "

The _thing_ snarls, knifesharp and throbbing and static in a throat that is nothing human, but _it obeys them,_ and Jon's blood prickles like ice.

"I don't believe you," Tim growls.

"I—Tim, get out, please."

"What are you?"

_"Get out."_

The recorder starts to emit a hight pitched whine as the static crackles behind their voice. Tim takes a step, then another, the sound just audible beneath the distorted audio.

"How about I wear you instead, _Archivist?_ " the thing hisses, and Jon can't shake the image of it _curling_ inside his skin, baring his own teeth in a too-sharp smile.

"You can try."

It growls again, sending shivers down his spine, but the sound is fainter now, further away.

 ** _"Ceaseless Watcher,"_** the other Jon's voice rings out, low and powerful, an unearthly echo layered with the static, building to a crescendo. **_"Turn your gaze upon this thing."_**

The thing _screams,_ the sound nearly lost beneath the crackle of distorted static, and with an almost electric tearing sound, it _dissolves._

There is a beat of silence.

Then the static starts again, rising almost instantly, and the other Jon lets out a strangled cry of pain, quickly lost in the feedback. It fades again, just as quickly, and then all that remains is the sound of Tim's heavy, erratic breathing.

The audio ends, and the empty tape continues spinning, until Jon reaches out with a shaking hand and stops the device with a soft _click._

Well.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been sitting on the Tim and Spooky Jon interaction for so long. I had to do an overhaul of the outline and I was so worried I might have to cut it. So yeah sorry for pretending to Not Them Tim and then going on an indefinite hiatus, but in my defense I meant to resolve it _quickly._
> 
> Also yeah I miscalculated, lore is coming later <3 Turns out trying to cram like 3 chapters worth of content into 1 does not bode well for the word count or my sanity.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://falling-forever-upwards.tumblr.com)! Sometimes I vague about writing. Mostly I just scream.
> 
> Next up: Communication? In my archives?


End file.
